


Transcendence

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Brocket Hall, POV William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne, Queen Victoria - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 109,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Relationships: William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Comments: 224
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

_The sun on my face like a benediction._

Melbourne leafed idly through the pages of memory for the origin of that phrase - all the words in all the books he'd read, treatises on and by the Early Fathers of Eastern and Western Church, the phrases and passages he'd committed to memory, struck as much by poetic eloquence as by profundity of sentiment therein. A scrap from Augustine of Hippo perhaps? Or Ignatius of Antioch? None of the ascetics; of that he was fairly certain. One of the Eastern rite homilies of John Chrysostom, written while he could still be pleased by the physical world?

The sun was warm on his face, which meant its rays must be slanted enough to evade the awning overhead. A fact, no more; the blood in his veins felt thick as honey and a pleasing languor rendered all consideration of time irrelevant.

A delicious scent of fresh-cut grass almost overpowered the fragrance of lilac hedges, both only top notes of a dizzying natural perfume. Melbourne felt almost drunken with sudden delight, euphoria transporting him out of himself so his mind drifted weightless over the tableau below. Had he opened his eyes at just that moment he would have gazed upon a rural scene worthy of Rousseau's brush. Lawns cropped by the robust young workmen pushing Mr. Budding's wheeled cutting machines, an innovation newly adopted by the groundskeepers on large estates, would dazzle the eye with the brilliant green of late spring. These slopes would be the backdrop for children at play, holding themselves stiff as they rolled downhill, shrieking with glee. Inevitably one or the other would fail to stop before they landed in the reeds at the edge of the pond. Not entirely without hazard or there would be no sport in the game, but at worst they ran the risk of soaking themselves and emerging caked with mud.

Melbourne knew there would be a bevy of nursemaids keeping watch, girls daringly lifting their hems to expose winter-white legs, while the estate boys vied to impress them. He and his own brothers and sister had done the same and worse, frequently daring one another to swim as close to the stately cob and pen keeping watch over their own young. No, the children were fine and engaged in exactly the sort of rough-and-tumble play they should be, away from the confines of Buckingham Palace.

A far sweeter smell than even late spring could offer, the oddly pleasing whiff of soured milk and primal _something_ , essence of life and immortality, anchored him even in such a relaxed dream-like state. Damp warmth against his shirt, silky strands of hair tickling his chin and a clenched fist gripping whatever it found to cling to – chest hair, a collar point – reminded him that he held eternity in his arms.

Melbourne was in the process of rising when Lady Lyttleton approached, moving so hurriedly that the swishing of her voluminous skirts created a breeze.

She clucked her disapproval of the baby's bare head and breathlessly delivered dire warnings of all the evil which could befall an infant exposed to sunlight and outdoor air. Melbourne privately considered the layers of flannel, a fine lawn dress and soft cashmere shawl sufficient protection on a May day warm as midsummer but surrendered nonetheless, pretending humbled chagrin. He shifted Freddy from his shoulder to the crook of his arm and smiled into blue eyes which flew open in alarm at the sudden movement.

 _Hush-a-bye, baby_ , he cooed. _Papa's little man_ … Melbourne babbled the sort of soothing nonsense which came naturally to a parent's lips and was rewarded by a rosebud mouth quirking up at the corner in near-smile. When a little hand came up and baby fingers fluttered against his chin, he thought he might melt from the impossible intensity of love he felt.

"You may take him indoors if you wish, Lady Lyttleton," he rumbled grudgingly and cleared his throat to conceal the urge to wince. A pang, no more.

Without the excuse of the baby, he would be obliged to walk down the hill and more closely observe Liam and Lily at play. Not that it was a chore to do so, Melbourne thought, but at present he felt disinclined to engage in such a robust excursion.

The _procedure_ had been a success, so he was told. He had experienced no pain during the surgery, thanks to the new _chloroform_. Immediately on wakening he had vomited, and _that_ had been his introduction to the aftermath of a surgical incision made in a man's most delicate region. He was given laudanum to take with him and an entirely unnecessary warning to avoid vigorous exertion.

Putting off Victoria had been no easy matter. She was sharply observant of any changes in his demeanor and hovered as protectively as any good wife or more so, since she was ever cognizant of his age and inevitable – if thankfully minor – infirmities. A tendency towards back pain, the residual slight lameness in his leg from an earlier apoplectic stroke, explained away the smaller, steps he took and a certain stiffness of movement upon returning from Harley Street and within a day he had left for the country.

This trip had been planned in advance, ostensibly to give him time to handle the more tedious aspects of estate management. He would go over the summer planting schedule with his chief horticulturist, discuss needed repairs and improvement projects with the estate manager and receive his tenant farmers. Victoria would remain in London, so that she could attend to necessary business and put her seal of approval on plans for the June christening ceremony and public celebrations.

Melbourne transferred Freddy to Lady Sarah Lyttleton and almost managed to bite back the smirk of amusement before she could see and take offense. Lady Lyttleton was excessively proud of her appointment as Chief Governess to the royal nurseries, and disdained hands-on care of her charges as beneath her considerable dignity. Then he left the protection of the flagstone veranda and the comfort of his chair.

 _Ooof_. The sound escaped him before he could stop it, and Lily pulled back, her big blue eyes suddenly wide with alarm. Melbourne swallowed hard, past the bile which heralded the onset of nausea. His impetuous little daughter had launched herself headlong against him, expecting him to catch her and swing her high. The pain in his groin passed quickly, and he acknowledged with faint gratitude that it was no worse than many forgotten skirmishes in his youth. As a child and adolescent, they had roamed the fields and woodlands like savages here and at Melbourne Hall, dueling with stout branches, falling out of trees and landing hard, engaging in war play with neighborhood playmates who doubtless took advantage of an opportunity to inflict damage on the gentry.

He reassured Lily she had not hurt him and tickled her until she shrieked with laughter and forgot her concern. Then he took her warm dry hand in his and strolled gingerly down the incline to the water's edge.

In the 1770s Woods, a landscape gardener, had remodeled the parkland near the lake, so it had been generally as it was now for as long as he could remember. The River Lea was regulated by a weir to form the Broadwater, not dissimilar in engineering design to the more modest private swimming hole they had created two summers before. Paine had designed the Portland stone bridge over which lay the approach to Brocket Hall.

Since its heyday during the Regent's tenure, Melbourne's beloved estate had suffered the inevitable decline of any property with an absentee owner and insufficient resources to maintain it. Since his marriage, Victoria had infused Brocket Hall with much-needed cash – funds which Melbourne lacked the will to refuse – and it now flourished, one of the finest small estates in the country. His reticence lay in the distaste he felt for any appearance of having profited from his marriage, but Victoria genuinely loved the Hall and considered it her only real home. He had found a means of overcoming his scruples by leaving it all to Victoria and the children in his will. _Not_ Her Majesty the Queen, but Her Ladyship Victoria Lady Melbourne, and it would be the only property she held in her own right, apart from Crown estates.

Melbourne and Lily walked along the reed-lined shore until they stood under the bridge. Lily bent over, hands on her knees, and watched, rapt, silvery bream swimming to and fro. He let go of her hand and used his pocket knife to cut a white flower nearly as big as her head.

"For me, Papa?" she exclaimed, inordinately pleased by his gesture.

"For you. Do you know what flower this is?"

She shook her head emphatically, shaking her riotous dark curls.

"It's a lily," Melbourne said, smiling impishly. He twisted the stem into the ribbon holding her hair in place. "Shall I tell you what it means in the language of flowers?"

"Flowers have language? Do they talk, Papa?"

"Amongst themselves, perhaps they do. And people use flowers to communicate also. A Lily represents –" he went through the various interpretations, disregarding the more funeral translations. Chastity and virtue… "- goodness. _Pour vous._ "

"Because you want me to be a good girl?" Lily answered slowly, a frown darkening her expression. Melbourne shook his head fondly and lifted her chin.

"Because you _are_ a very good girl, my darling. You have a good heart and are brave and strong and virtuous."

He watched the play of expressions on her face as she evaluated his words, parsing them for any hidden meaning. Lily, the terror of the nurseries and the bane of those charged with her oversight and education, was clearly unaccustomed to hearing such a description applied to her.

"My darling girl, can you doubt it? I love you very, very much!"

"I know _that_ , Papa," she said dismissively. "Even when I'm not good, _you_ love me. It's so very hard to remember not to shout, or even to talk, and to mind my lessons and –"

"None of that has anything to do with being good, sweetheart. Goodness is in here and you are full of it. Come, let us walk back and see if we can lure the cygnets to the shore so you can become more closely acquainted. But you must promise Papa never, ever to go down to the lake alone."

Perhaps remembering her mishap the year before, Lily most solemnly agreed.

Only the promise of food finally lured them away from the lake. Both children had the beginnings of a summer tan, their faces glowing pink. They were led away to be washed and put in clean clothing and then would rejoin him for afternoon tea.

Taking "tea" with their parents was a new custom and one of which all concerned heartily endorsed. Even Baroness Lehzen, strict in matters of etiquette, and Lady Lyttleton, quick to disapprove of anything that hinted at improper indulgence, marveled at the manners their young charges displayed at table. Normally, of course, children did not dine with their elders; certainly, it formed no part of life in any genteel household, far less that of Court. But taking light refreshment in the afternoon between morning and dinner was an innovation without any firm framework to define it. Liam and Lily both looked forward to their parents' undivided attention, and the grown-up privilege of sharing their table.

Melbourne quickly exchanged his shirt for fresh linen and arranged a silk neckcloth in careful folds. He brushed his hair and considered donning a coat, but settled for a dark blue waistcoat instead.

Lily and Liam were similarly washed and brushed and waited for him in the drawing room. A footman stood behind each chair – five places were set – and Melbourne bowed, first to the Baroness and then to Lady Lyttleton, finally to his own daughter. She outranked the others, even her father, as a princess of the Blood, but Victoria and Melbourne agreed that in the privacy of their family quarters their attendants were not to observe orders of precedence.

Crudités, small crustless sandwiches and delicate cakes were placed on the table and then Melbourne dismissed the footmen with a nod. Lehzen served the children, adding a drop of tea to small china cups already filled with milk, and Melbourne beamed as they politely thanked her and chose which delicacies they preferred.

The adults made conversation, each of them careful in varying degrees to include the children, and even Lily observed the proprieties. She could not resist peppering one or the other with questions when some topic piqued her interest, but stopped herself before she could become tedious. _Four years old!_ Melbourne marveled, thinking how quickly the time had flown past. In her snowy pinafore and big hair bow, the white lily firmly affixed to her hair, she made a pretty picture, the very epitome of a well-behaved child, and he admitted that, while it made a pleasant change, he would be loath to see his tiny termagant, irrepressible firecracker, evolve into an entirely docile young lady.

Tea time was winding down and Melbourne glancing longingly at the decanter of Madeira waiting on a side table, when the sound of hoofbeats reached them. He saw a familiar figure coming up the drive, astride a horse easily 17 hands. Only one man he knew was big enough to manage an animal that size over the road between London and Hertfordshire .

"Lord Cameron," the steward intoned.


	2. Chapter 2

Billy had excused himself to wash off the dust of the road, then returned and joined them for tea. The big ex-soldier held his china cup with such elegance that even a high stickler like Sarah Lyttleton could not find fault and conversed so charmingly with the children that Baroness Lehzen's usually stern expression softened with something like a smile. Afterward they took a turn about the lake, stopped at the stables to examine an especially promising foal and played billiards until dinner was announced. Melbourne might have speculated on Cameron's presence, but knew that unpredictability was one of his hallmark traits. Still, under a veneer of lazy amiability, he sensed something was on the other man's mind.

Melbourne waited until the table was cleared and brandy set out. Then he turned a mildly inquisitive gaze on Billy Cameron.

♛

Victoria had watched until the modest convoy was out of sight, past the furthest point on the Mall. After a decade, she knew she should not feel bereft without him; knew the fluttery hollowness in the pit of her stomach was girlish nonsense best ignored. She drew her shoulders back, held her head high and stepped back inside.

Her schedule was as full as every other day, and she adhered closely to her normal routine. Mornings were for correspondence, and if Melbourne's absence meant she worked more efficiently, it also meant she had to make an effort to see beyond the surface. Victoria knew herself well, her strengths and weaknesses, and rightly considered her pragmatic understanding to be enhanced by Melbourne's grasp of more subtle nuances contained in even the most apparently banal communication.

Once she would have been peeved by his decision to go to the country without her, and would have made her displeasure known with silence and scowls, then sharp words if he failed to respond. But that was then, when she was a silly selfish girl; this was _now_ , and she considered herself both wiser and less demanding.

Melbourne was a good landlord to his tenant-farmers, and since his retirement from public office thrown himself into the rehabilitation of his neglected estate. There were decisions to be made, in consultation with his man of business and the property manager, leases to renew and…well, Victoria had no very precise understanding of what actual land management entailed, but she was sure it was one more thing at which William excelled. That his tenants and neighbors held him in high esteem was well-known; William Lamb was considered to be one of the fairest, most equitable landholders in the county, if not the country.

He had agreed without argument to travel the distance in a carriage, the bridle of his favorite mount tied loosely to an outrider's pommel. Victoria had personally poked her head in the brougham to be certain there were sufficient cushions in place and fussed about the lack of a brick wrapped in flannel. The air at first light was still chill, but Lord M had only cuffed her lightly under the chin and pointed out that the day promised to be fine and warm.

His back had been bothering him, Victoria knew. She would be an uncaring wife if his stiff, careful movements had escaped her notice. _Since that long day he spent in London, traipsing all over Whitehall on foot_. Traffic was congested at the best of times, and with the advent of spring road construction blocked many of the main thoroughfares. _But the Queen's carriage should be allowed to pass any barricade_ , she had sniped, glaring at the plainclothes protection officer who accompanied him everywhere. _I_ like _to walk,_ Melbourne had said. It was true, Victoria knew; he enjoyed exchanging greetings with passersby as much or more as he valued the exercise for its own sake.

Still, it had been too much. He had returned late in the evening, leaning heavily on his equerry's arm as he slowly climbed the stairway. Victoria had gone away to turn down the bed with her own hands while his valet readied him for bed, but her intention to coddle him, kneading the tight muscles in his back and rubbing his feet, had been for naught. He had groggily kissed her face somewhere in the vicinity of her ear and been asleep before she could respond.

Sure that he would put off his trip to Brocket, Victoria had been surprised when, after spending the following day lazing about in their private apartment, he had been up before dawn on the day after that.

_Men!_ she thought, and she recognized her mother in the amused exacerbation of her own silent voice. But he was essentially well, despite that residual stiffness. Of that Victoria was certain. They were far too attuned to one another's thoughts and feelings for her to mistake the transient soreness of his lumbago for anything more serious. _And it's only two more days I must remain in London; we will spend the weekend together at Brocket before we return for the festivities._

Fortunately there was little to give her pause or reason for concern in the morning's dispatches, and Victoria was able to give half her attention to the national celebration she had planned for Freddy's christening. It would coincide with the week of her birthday and the annual Trooping of the Colours, so those events provided a plausible excuse to mark the baptism of her third child in an extravagant public display. Dear little Freddy would be the spare to his brother the heir, with no grand destiny unless some unthinkable tragedy befell Liam. But for that one day he would be the centre of attention, would be cheered by thousands of her subjects lining the streets. He, and more importantly, _his father_.

Victoria had planned every detail with the Lord Chamberlain. They would process in an open landau, gilded for the occasion, in the same route she had followed nine years earlier at her coronation. Trains were already booked to capacity and beyond, bringing her subjects from every corner of the Empire for the promised fete. Wine, beer and brandy would be liberally dispensed and tents erected to serve food to the masses. There would be a huge fair in Hyde Park, including a balloon ascents, over a three-day bank holiday. Fireworks would be set off in Green Park the night after the ceremony. The promised revelry – abundant food and drink were no small lure – might draw as many as forty thousand into London, and certain areas along the route would be reserved for these sojourners.

Billy Cameron, still nominally Colonel of his regiment, had worked with the heads of key military contingents to ensure no disturbance of the peace by northern Radicals ruined the day. Victoria had seen Billy come and go more often than was usual of late, visits that she assumed involved the coordination of all the plainclothes protection officers under his command.

_All for him. So my darling can finally receive his long-overdue reward. So that the finest of men, the most dedicated of public servants, the keeper of the peace of England when every other nation in Europe had been torn by agitation and unrest, can be cheered by the people who owe him the peace and prosperity of England_.

His retirement had been unremarked, no more than a stepping-back from the Prime Ministership when his party had already lost their majority. Prince William's birth had been heralded, as one more brick in the wall keeping England free of Hanoverian rule, but by necessity Melbourne played no acknowledged part in his own son's early life. When they married, it had been in unseemly haste, barely a month after Albert's death.

Their widowed Queen's remarriage to a scandal-plagued politician four decades her senior had been accepted by the people with a surprising lack of vitriol. _A May-December romance_ , one commentator had labeled it, but Melbourne was generally well-liked even by those who disagreed with his moderate policies. Still, he had never been properly acknowledged, been cheated not only of the pomp and circumstance he claimed to disdain but of the right of every ironmonger and grocer, to boast of begetting a son.

Victoria's musings had taken up much of the time she allotted to the box full of letters, each of them requiring a response. With a pang of longing for Melbourne's companionship, she sighed and picked up her pen.

Another of the chatty, intimate letters from Queen Maria of Portugal was set aside, so that Victoria could respond at her leisure. Maria was only a month older, and both were Queens Regnant, giving them a shared bond of understanding. Maria had made a State marriage and her husband Ferdinand, a cousin to Victoria, had been crowned King-Consort. Such a title, obtained by marriage, lead to unforeseen and unintended consequences, and rarely strengthened the female sovereign who was already at a disadvantage because of her sex. Nonetheless, theirs seemed to be a happy marriage and Victoria was glad of a true friend who could grasp the uniqueness of their shared situation.

A longer missive from Sir John Wood, Chancellor of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, required all the concentration Victoria could muster. He was bemoaning the current state of monetary pressure, and was desirous of taking various steps, all of which, when sifted, amounted either to a repeal or a suspension of the present law by which the currency of the country was regulated. Victoria read the closely-written ten pages several times over, underlining entire passages as she went and was about to dictate a terse summons when she recalled the excellent advice Melbourne had once given her. _We require more information before we can give our endorsement – VR_.

The rest of the morning flew by, interrupted only by Freddy's feeding. She might well have sent him along to Brocket Hall, knowing him safe and well-cared-for by his doting father, the Royal governess and dear Lehzen. At the last, she begged Melbourne's understanding for her reluctance to part with the baby and kept him with her at Buckingham Palace. Freddy's wet nurse, looking forward to seeing her parents again, was downcast at the news she must remain in London. Unusually patient, Victoria took the time to console the girl, telling her she might ride in the Queen's own carriage to Hertfordshire. Mollified by the treat, and the Queen's condescension and – just perhaps, Victoria speculated, by the prospect of traveling not only with Victoria but with Billy Cameron in the party – the girl went away happy.

Billy's was a ubiquitous presence, and for such a large, boisterous man, could blend surprisingly well into any surroundings. When Victoria thought about it at all, she wondered where he went when he disappeared for days, even weeks at a time, only to simply reappear as though he had only just stepped into another room.

Overall responsibility for his nascent _secret service_ had been given to Francis Russell, 7th Duke of Bedford. From its impromptu beginning after the 1842 assassination attempt Cameron had successfully thwarted, Billy's brainchild domestic intelligence service had quickly expanded far beyond his ability – or desire – to successfully manage. He did, by Crown mandate, retain control of the personal protection squad of plainclothes officers he had recruited and trained. The uniformed military personnel which rotated assignment as Household Guardsmen were the more visible, but if Cameron's unit could not compete in size and splendor, it excelled in agility, ingenuity and fierce loyalty to their commanding officer and the person of the sovereign.

Like a great jungle beast, deceptively lazy and languid, sprawling in his typical posture with long legs extended and an arm flung over the back of the sofa, Billy was already at his ease in the Yellow Drawing Room when Victoria entered. She was to receive Benjamin Disraeli at 5 for a formal audience, to hear some petition he wished to put forth. Knowing Disraeli's penchant for long-winded monologues as well as she did his obliviousness to the clock, Victoria resigned herself to the fact that she must invite him to dine. Her mind thus occupied, she scarcely took notice of Billy, even though his large frame occupied fully half of a delicate Louis Quatorze brocade sofa.

Behind her, Victoria's ladies betrayed their admiration in a rustling of petticoats and much fan-play when Billy bowed elegantly.

"Lord Cameron. This is a surprise," she said drily. _One generally awaits an invitation before one appears before the Queen_. She heard the words in her head and opened her mouth to speak them, stopping herself just in time. It would be foolish at best, to pretend to such starchy formality in light of all that had passed between them over the years.

"With Lord Melbourne in the country I thought someone should keep an eye out, that you and the wee one are safe and well."

"Very…considerate of you, to be sure," Victoria answered him, laughing. _Someone other than the – what? Seven? or eight hundred-odd servants in residence and the ladies of my household?_

As though he read her mind, Billy snickered. Just then, Mr. Disraeli was announced.

He devoted some time to the conversational niceties of the occasion. Victoria inquired politely after his wife Mary Anne and his patroness Frances Vane, Marchioness of Londonderry. She was never quite at ease in Mr. Disraeli's company. He said and did all that was proper, but with an intensity that was unsettling at best, exhausting at worst. His snapping dark eyes seemed to burn with feverish energy, and he spoke in a rapid-fire manner which required all one's attention.

In 1847 a small political crisis had recently removed Bentinck from leadership of the Opposition and highlighted Disraeli's differences with his own party. Lionel de Rothschild had been returned for the City of London. As a practicing Jew he could not take the oath of allegiance in the prescribed Christian form, and therefore could not take his seat. Lord John Russell was, like Rothschild, a member for the City of London, proposed in the Commons that the oath should be amended to permit Jews to enter Parliament.

Disraeli, Jewish by ancestry although his father had converted much earlier, spoke in favour of the measure to Victoria, arguing that Christianity was "completed Judaism".

He even went so far as to ask Victoria – rhetorically, she hoped - "Where is your Christianity if you do not believe in their Judaism?"

Russell and Gladstone supported him already, Disraeli assured her, but if the Queen, as Head of the Church of England, were to come out forcefully in favor of seating Rothschild, how could any good Anglican refuse?

Victoria had thought about the matter at great length and discussed it with Melbourne and the liberal Bishop of London, both of whom endorsed the measure. Melbourne in fact had given a rare speech in the House some years earlier, nimbly deflecting those who would otherwise condemn any show of partiality to the Jews. Excluding any man of talent from government, Melbourne had said, would deprive both Crown and Country of their right to the services of the best and brightest amongst them. Thus, full emancipation would be for the benefit of the nation, not the minority.

Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford, spoke strongly against the measure and implied that Russell was paying off the Jews for helping elect him, leaving the Queen to come down on one side or the other.

Victoria forgot her reluctance to entertain Mr. Disraeli, thoroughly engrossed in their discussion. She took her religion as seriously as she did her duties, and was pleasantly surprised at Disraeli's ability to converse passionately about both Christianity and Judaism in plain terms. _Without William's levity,_ she thought, _that always makes me feel just slightly foolish when speaking from my heart about religious faith._

They were interrupted after an hour by Billy's jovial invitation to her ladies to walk in the gardens. Of course she would not remain tête-à-tête with Benjamin Disraeli. He was neither a minister in her government – just the opposite, in political fact - or a member of her extended family, and it would be improper for them to remain closeted whilst her attendants gallivanted around the gardens. Instead she pretended the excursion was her own idea and invited Disraeli to join them.

They walked until the evening grew cool and it was nearly time to dine. Victoria excused herself to dress and deliberately chose a becoming new gown that showed her shoulders to advantage. It was so good to have her figure back, she thought as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. An inch more at the waist was unfortunate but could not weigh against the perpetually happy new boy who graced her nursery.

Leopold had surprised them all by coming to London a full week ahead of his wife and children. He had unspecified business to attend to, her uncle informed her at table, and would spend only a single night under her roof before journeying to Claremont.

Mr. Disraeli had not brought proper attire with him, of course, but she dismissed his apologies with a wave of her hand. Billy and her uncle were the only other gentlemen at dinner, and both of them were debonair in their evening clothes.

"For you," Billy said, before they went in. He'd had his hands behind his back and brought them forward to present a single perfect white magnolia. "I thought ye'd not be wearing jewels at this little party, or at least none that wouldn't be improved by a bit of nature."

Victoria was not well-pleased by the gesture made under her uncle's disapproving gaze, but she found she didn't have the heart to refuse.

"A beautiful fragrance, magnolia," Disraeli said, sniffing, leaning towards her as he inhaled.

Victoria waited until her chief Lady of the Bedchamber had arranged the stem of the flower into her brooch. She looked from one man to the other. Disraeli, lean and swarthy with a shock of black hair hanging over his brow, was not ill-favored, she decided, and Billy, for all his annoying qualities, was admittedly a very attractive man. Victoria's lips quirked into a small secret smile. _Seven-and-twenty, with three children, very happily married – but it's rather amusing to have two gentlemen flirting with me all the same._

At evening's end, as he was preparing to depart, Disraeli returned to the reason for his visit.

"May I know what you intend, ma'am, on the matter we discussed?"

She might well wait until after the weekend, until after she'd discussed it with Lord M, but Victoria recklessly decided to forge ahead with what she knew was the right course of action. Melbourne himself had taken a stand more than a decade before, in favor of full emancipation; Lord John Russell, the Head of her Government, likewise concurred.

"We will draft a formal statement endorsing full emancipation, and asking Our Lord Chancellor to revise the swearing-in."

Victoria felt inordinately pleased with herself, almost girlishly giddy. Her dresser remarked coyly on the becoming glow which still pinked her cheeks, as her long hair was unpinned and brushed. When she was alone in the big bed, she reached for the creamy star-shaped flower from her bedside table.

Having never been formally brought out into society, Victoria had been woefully innocent at her majority. Lord Melbourne had been almost the first gentleman with whom she was alone, with whom she had exchanged the light-hearted, flirtatious banter most girls practiced at a succession of balls and country-parties. There were others, of course, once she was in control of her own life, gentlemen who formed a part of her party when she rode out, who attended drawing rooms and dinners and musical performances. But they were all constrained to some extent by the protocol of Court, less sure of themselves, less adept at the amusing conversation with which Lord M entertained her at every encounter.

Now that she was happily married and secure in the affection of a husband she adored, Victoria thought it could be quite pleasant to be so openly admired by two gentlemen vying for her attention. _Not_ that there was any chance of her encouraging impropriety, or that _Billy_ – for whom she felt the half-grudging affection borne of long familiarity – meant anything by his exaggerated expressions of devotion. But Mr. Disraeli, although a very different sort of person from any she was used to, seemed determined to win her favor. He was fiercely ambitious and notoriously pushy social climber, and it might be amusing to let him think she could be easily manipulated.

Victoria sighed, suddenly bored with her own foolish thoughts, tossed the magnolia aside without another thought. Bedtime was, as she'd known it would be, the time she missed William most keenly. Most couples slept apart, she knew, and felt a sort of bemused pity for them. The animal comfort of sharing a bed was one of the luxuries of marriage. This time was _their_ time, when they spoke in low voices, of their day or some family matter. They might exchange impressions of a book they'd both read, or William might bring her to helpless giggles with his mimicry of a mutual acquaintance. They might make love, or hold one another and kiss and touch. She might twist his thick curls around her fingers or he might brush her hair, paying special attention to the fine strands at her temples. And then he would raise his arm in final invitation and she would lay her head in that hollow at his shoulder, and they would fall into sleep as one, even their unconscious breath coming in unison.

Victoria lay back and willed sleep to come. When she awoke it would only be one more day until they were together again. Laying on her back, she felt too exposed and vulnerable, feeling her aloneness more acutely. She turned onto her side, facing that empty place. She hugged herself tightly, imagining it was his arms around her.

_"Oh William, I try to be strong and independent but I am not complete without you!"_

♛

Victoria tried to occupy herself by reading, but the jolting and swaying of the carriage made it a dismal failure. She shared a coach with Polly the wet nurse, as promised, and one lady-in-waiting. Freddy's customary good cheer failed at the midway point and he became restive and unusually fussy. The baby was passed from lap to lap but neither his mother's attempts to distract him nor his nurse's breast could mollify him for long.

"You are impatient to see Papa," Victoria told him, in the low soft voice which came naturally now, at this third time mothering an infant. "Well, so am I, I'll have you know…"

Perhaps, she thought, if the girl wasn't so sullen… Victoria regretted the impulsive offer to allow her to ride with them. Polly had clearly anticipated Billy's presence and his easy, offhand flirtation, more than she had the rare gift of a sovereign's company. She had her own infant without benefit of a husband, and might well end up with another one. Victoria made a mental note to apprise Lehzen of the girl's loose morals, so that a close watch might be kept.

The sun was low in the sky, tinting the landscape with its surreal orangey glow, lighting the surface of the Broadwater as though it was on fire. Victoria looked out the window eagerly for that first treasured glimpse of Brocket Hall, and was soon rewarded.

A footman lowered the step and extended his white-gloved hand, but another arm pushed his aside. Victoria felt herself tremble from head to toe and just barely maintained her decorum as she stepped down.

_Home!_ She felt the concept as so much more than a word; a lifetime spent in palaces which belonged to the Crown had left her hungry for this sense of _home_.

It's here, she thought, this dear Palladian house, not humble by any means but neither grand in the way of Kensington or Buckingham or venerable old Windsor. _Yes, and no_ , Victoria amended. Dear Brocket Hall is certainly home, but _he_ is the home for my heart.

"William!" she exhaled heartily, abandoning all dignity as she threw herself at him. "I've missed you so!"

"It's only been a few days," she heard him say with laughter in his voice, overlaying the tenderness. _I've missed you too, darling girl,_ he murmured so only she could hear and his arm was already around her.

"Here, what's all this fuss about?" Melbourne's voice rumbled soothingly over Freddy's shrieks.

The nurse, stupid girl, had nearly stumbled stepping out with both Freddy and her own child in her arms, and the jolting motion had frightened him so he cried in alarm. Melbourne deftly lifted his son out of her grasp and Freddy quieted at once, sucking his fist and cooing.

♛

"We did not expect you until midday tomorrow," Melbourne said. He rested a hip on the corner of her dressing table, watching her with those kind, expressive eyes that communicated his love so well. Victoria lifted her chin in silent dismissal, and her maid departed with an armful of clothing.

"I couldn't wait another day," she said brightly, fluttering her lashes in deliberate pantomime. As she'd hoped he would, Melbourne chuckled.

"You flatter me, ma'am. And frighten me."

"Frighten you?' Victoria tilted her head, puzzled. "What a peculiar thing to say."

"I meant only that if you plan to ravish me, I must plead fatigue. I've been in the saddle since dawn, and most of that spent riding rough across the fields to examine spring planting."

"Well, then, I will have to do my best to revive you. Did you miss me?"

Victoria rose and positioned herself between his legs. She shook her hair back and looked into his face.

"My poor love, is your back still bothering you?" Her fingers moved along the length of his thigh, tickling him lightly with her nails. She expected him to admit it and move on, to envelope her in his strong embrace. When he didn't answer Victoria frowned.

"William-? Are you unwell? Is something else amiss?"

"No, my darling, not at all. Quite the contrary in fact. Daniel Cameron rode out from London this morning – he's staying in the Lodge tonight, with his brother."

"Daniel – what does he have to do with anything?"

"I intended to surprise you, after the fact. I had a…small procedure. Nothing whatsoever to inspire concern, and Daniel assures me everything is in working order." Victoria watched closely as Melbourne glanced away, and thought she saw him wince in…discomfort? Or was that a moue of distaste twisting his beautiful lips?

"You cannot go through another pregnancy, another birth. There's no _reason_ for you to do so. We have Liam and Lily and now Freddy too, and all, thankfully, are strong and healthy. There is a procedure which is often done on the Continent, which has the effect of precluding further conception. Gentlemen my age often seek out this procedure, to…er…enhance virility. So I'm told, at least. I have no problems in that area _yet_ , but perhaps in time we'll be grateful for that reason alone. But now we can make love without fear of pregnancy. The country needs you, and I need you, and in the best of circumstances childbirth is a dangerous business."

"What kind of procedure?" Victoria heard the shrill note in her own voice, plainly signaling alarm. Her eyes went to the place where…

"No!" she whispered. "Is it –"

To her surprise Melbourne hiccupped and laughed so hard he nearly choked. That relieved her mind of its worst fear.

"No, my darling, I am quite intact. I believe you're thinking of gelding."


	3. Chapter 3

Melbourne's robust laughter was in earnest, a reaction triggered by the look of blatant dismay on Victoria's face. No, not dismay exactly; more like transient shock, her horrified expression telling him what she had imagined.

Victoria's piquant little face softened. Her mouth twisted into a wry little smile that instantly lent her an air of maturity which left Melbourne feeling foolish.

"It would have been well, if you had seen fit to discuss this _procedure_ with me beforehand, Lord M. I am your _wife_ and not a silly chit of a girl you must protect at all costs. Or," and now she looked up at him mischievously. "did you hope to protect _your_ tender feelings from any outburst from me?"

"Well, madame…perhaps if I answer, 'a bit of both'?" Melbourne raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of each knuckle.

That was that, at least for the present. The storm had passed without breaking over his head, and he realized yet again his precious, cossetted girl was a girl no more.

"I want to kiss Freddy and look in on the children," Victoria announced matter-of-factly. "And have a few words with Lehzen. And, I suppose, with Madame Hocédé. Uncle's insufferable brats will be arriving next week with Louise and I would like the children to greet them with a flawless French greeting. Young Leo already speaks five languages fluently, Uncle tells me."

Melbourne bowed from the neck in faux subservience, then held out his arm. Victoria smoothed her skirts and patted her hair, then laid her hand on his sleeve.

He was reminded how easily she had taken to mothering this third child, with none of the stiff reticence she had displayed towards Liam and Lily as infants. She picked up the baby, sweet-smelling from his bath, and nestled his head in the crook of her arm. When she spoke to him, it was in a low intimate tone that instantly elicited a smiling response.

"My boy, you've had quite enough of monopolizing your mother's attention," Melbourne told his son, and was silenced by a chubby dimpled fist. He leaned over Victoria's shoulder, one hand on her arm, and together they bantered with the soon-drowsing baby.

"Has he been fed?" Victoria asked one of the two nursery maids standing at attention in their crisp white pinafores.

"Yes, ma'am," they answered in unison. "The wet nurse finished his feeding and gave 'im to us for his bath. She's – she's gone off to visit her family, ma'am."

"Thank you," Victoria answered, laying Freddy in his cradle. It was an ornate carved piece originally commissioned for Melbourne's eldest brother, now modernized by tiers of white lace skirting.

"She's quite taken by Billy," Victoria murmured as soon as they had left the nursery, making certain they were out of earshot of the maids. "I think Lehzen will have to watch her closely when we return to London, else she'll be throwing herself at him and get herself with child again."

"Billy? We _could_ ask him to make an honest woman of her…"

"You tease, William. Billy might not act it but he's a gentleman. His father came from Scottish gentry once upon a time, and held an Irish title. I've made him an English viscount. He's prouder than he lets on and would never think to _marry_ a farm girl with loose morals."

Melbourne laughed and conceded the practical good sense Victoria expressed. No false outrage and none of that excessively concern for propriety which appeared every generation or so. Farmer George had been roundly mocked for his petit bourgeois sensibilities, while young Albert had cultivated a public façade of middle-class respectability to conceal his decidedly _un_ conventional homosexuality.

"I'll speak to him later, if you like. Or tomorrow morning, if you prefer to make an early night of it."

"Billy's _here_?" Victoria asked him, her surprise evident. "How odd. He dined with me the night before last. Mr. Disraeli as well, and I thought Billy behaved rather uncivilly toward him."

"Hmmm," Melbourne was noncommittal. They had reached the suite devoted to schoolroom and sleeping chambers for the older children.

Baroness Lehzen was deep in conversation with Madame Hocédé when they entered. Victoria greeted the Frenchwoman pleasantly and gave her cheek to her old governess for a kiss. They were soon engrossed in a discussion of the proposed welcome speech Liam would give, when Leopold and Louise and their brood were formally received, as prelude to the christening celebrations.

♛

"On the clearest day London always smells of smoke and soot and too many people," Victoria said, inhaling deeply.

They had dined with those who held sufficient status within her household to gather at table with the Queen. Victoria's lady-in-waiting, Lehzen, the London surgeon who was brother to Billy Cameron and had chosen to accept the offer of overnight accommodations and return to Harley Street the following day. Billy himself put in a tardy appearance, suitably attired to dine.

Daniel Cameron was irreverent as Billy but without the latter's genial good nature. His angelic good looks were at odds with a sardonic nature – even cruel, if some of the more personal gossip was to be credited. He was also unapologetically surly, which only enhanced his popularity amongst the upper-class females who flocked to his surgery on any pretext. Daniel would have frankly discussed all the gory details of Melbourne's _procedure_ in front of the ladies, if not for a firm fraternal kick delivered under the table.

He might have suggested that, in the relaxed informality of Brocket Hall, the French preceptress be invited to join them but decided to forgo the gesture. Melbourne had succeeded in imposing enough distance between them so that any hint of burgeoning friendship or familiarity was squashed. He smiled coolly when she invited him to use her Christian name and showed no interest at her occasional conversational gambit, in effect reminding her of her station and his. It made Melbourne uncomfortable to stand on ceremony, or to hide behind pretension and presumed self-importance.

Lena Hocédé was an interesting woman who had traveled widely and educated herself far beyond the female custom. She was a witty, entertaining conversationalist, able to parry his bon mots with the ease found only in a few select salons, and had strong opinions of her own on some of the same esoteric philosophies Melbourne had studied. All that counted for far more than her pleasing appearance, her handsome figure and black-fringed violet eyes. He had not _lusted_ for the woman, of that he was innocent, but there had been a frisson of unexpressed _interest_ that added zest to their encounters. All the more reason, then, why he'd had to nip it in the bud, before palace gossips – or the woman herself – misunderstood his intent.

He passed the evening in male company, enjoying Billy Cameron's forthright good humor, tolerating his brother. When they left for the Lodge, Melbourne rejoined the ladies and spent a half hour listening to soft musical voices as he dozed in his chair.

At half-past eleven Victoria nudged him and they climbed the elegant, curving stairway together.

"Oh, throw the window open, do," she begged. Her maid had unbuttoned her gown and loosened the laces on her stays. The woman unclasped the modest necklace Victoria had chosen for a country dinner and taken the pins from her hair.

Victoria had learned to be more self-sufficient and no longer expected to be handled like a doll. Where once she'd scarcely lifted her arms from her sides, over the years she had adopted Melbourne's habit of accepting only necessary assistance with her toilette.

"Are there lilacs blooming yet?" Victoria asked, shivering slightly as cool night air cut through the thin fabric of her bed gown. She was rubbing rosewater lotion into her hands, having applied another unguent to the creamy skin on her face and neck.

Melbourne delighted in watching these small bedtime rituals, unremarkable in themselves but powerful testament to the intimacy between them. Victoria's economy of movement, her small hands sure as she screwed tops on glass bottles and replaced stoppers in cut glass vials, was sweet in its simplicity, precious because these homely tasks were _hers_.

"The buds are ready to burst. Remember what I told you?"

"That your lilacs will always bloom on my birthday. But we won't be here on Monday so you must hurry them along," Victoria teased, showing him her most beguiling expression.

"Be patient, ma'am, and trust. It's Friday night and the lilacs have until Sunday. You can smell a hint of their perfume on the breeze." Common lilacs were Victoria's favorite blossom, their fragrance and simple abundance. Melbourne Hall had entire hedges of lilacs, on the far edges of the park. He had persuaded his erudite chief gardener – _horticulturist and trained botanist,_ as the man himself would clarify _–_ to cultivate a like display at Brocket Hall. Masses of creamy white and delicate lavender sprigs would be sent to London in time for Victoria's birthday.

He followed her onto the small balcony outside their apartment. It had a southeastern aspect, and as a result came alight at dawn.

"It's so dark," she said wonderingly, leaning to look over the low balustrade. "Compared to London, I mean. There, the gas lamps and link boys ensure it's never quite dark."

"In parts of the city, the night is black indeed. There are places in your capital even the Peelers dare not go."

"We will supply beer and wine for the poor and working-class inhabitants too," Victoria said, apropos of nothing in particular. "I've asked Mr. Hooper to make sure that no ward or borough is forgotten. And the Tower has already seen an influx of visitors. The Line of Kings is being refurbished as part of the Royal Society of Arts' plan for a great exhibition, and I'm told they intend to have the horses mounted on plinths by the end of next week."

"I should have told you. _Asked_ you your opinion, before undergoing the procedure," Melbourne retorted, deciding that he would take full advantage of their conversational rambling to have it out.

"Yes, you should have," Victoria agreed, rising and turning into his embrace. "Let's get in bed. It's so very pleasant and cozy to be warm and snug with a cool breeze blowing."

"I understand why you didn't, and while I quite like feeling taken care of, protected and cherished – and you do it so very _well_ – there are times you have to remember that we are partners, and allow me to care for you. I won't dwell on the things that might have gone wrong, only…you are _mine_ , William Lamb, and I deserve a say in all things which affect you. Especially…"

Melbourne caught his breath as her fingers found him and ever so gently, stroked him in a caress that communicated the extend of her protective affection. Her touch just then was not sensuous, and not meant to be, but he responded nonetheless. The sudden heat relieved him of his greatest remaining fear, that the trauma of the procedure might have an inhibiting effect.

"I'm no longer a girl," Victoria continued. "I will be eight-and-twenty in a few days. That sounds quite _old_ ," she added.

Once again Melbourne erupted in laughter. "'Old'?" he repeated. "You are not _old_ , Victoria."

"I said the same to you, more than once."

"So, tell me about Dizzy's visit. What did he want? And what on earth did he do to put Billy's nose out of joint?"

Melbourne listened, his head lolling against stacked pillows. Victoria's fingers kept busy while she talked.

"You committed to backing him publicly, without talking to your Prime Minister?" he inquired at one point, trying to keep his tone neutral.

"I was sure you'd agree, Lord M. You once argued for full emancipation. And Lord John himself likewise has come out in favor of amending the oath."

"All true. I hope Johnnie doesn't feel blindsided, all the same. Dizzy should have gone through his own party leader, or at the least reached out to a senior member of Government. It's not quite the thing, you know, for a back bencher to seek Royal patronage for his bill."

By her sheepish expression, Melbourne knew she agreed.

"Did he flirt with you? Is that how he overcame your better judgment?" Melbourne was pleased that his voice remained steady. It would not do to lacerate her vanity by chuckling just now.

"Flirt? He was – well, he was as bold and pushy as ever, but I certainly would not countenance anything untoward –"

Even by the light of a single flickering candle, Melbourne could detect a charming pink high on her cheeks.

"If it hasn't happened before, I'll be surprised. And it will most definitely happen again. You're one of those women who become even more appealing as you mature. As a girl – _my_ precious girl – you struck fear into the hearts of your most stalwart courtiers. Then, only I was privileged to see the real you, light-hearted and playful and vivacious. You could be quite imposing, even starchy."

"Starchy?" Victoria squeaked in a high-pitched tone of playful outrage. She nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Starchy. You and Albert, the pair of you, as stiff as martinets. Young people sometimes go that way, imagining they must be sober and pious to prove their maturity. Ah but now…I anticipate I'll have my hands quite full, with all the gentlemen who eager to demonstrate their appreciation."

"I think that's a compliment…?" Melbourne grinned at Victoria, charmed by her embarrassment-tinged pleasure.

"Most assuredly, it is. Every man in the land once envied me for my presumed influence with the Crown. Now they all envy me for my possession of the most charming, most delectable –"

Having not achieved the desired response with her elbow, Victoria swung her legs over his thighs and applied herself in earnest, pinching and pummeling. When she had him breathless with laughter she tumbled off, landing with a bounce on the bed beside him.

"If that's what flirting is – and I promise you I said and did nothing improper – it was…well, it was rather pleasant. For a while. Then I was glad to be rid of him. You do know I would never encourage…"

Melbourne melted at the earnest expression in those round blue eyes. Victoria hadn't had a girlhood, had been so closely guarded by her mother and Conroy that the few young peoples' dances they hosted at Kensington involved mostly her own cousins and a few sprigs of the nobility too terrified to engage in the most innocent flirtation. That lack of experience only compounded her curious juxtaposition of strong will and feminine insecurity, of a young woman who addressed her Privy Councilors with dignified confidence while stuttering shyly in her own drawing room.

"Do you like him?" Melbourne asked curiously.

"Mr. Disraeli? No! He's so very intense, he quite gives me a headache. But it's nice to be…admired, I suppose. He does strive to be pleasing."

Melbourne felt only the smallest stirring of jealousy, hardly even worthy of the word. But he _was_ concerned for her shaky feminine self-esteem, and deeply suspicious of Benjamin Disraeli's motives. The wily fellow was no philanderer, of that Melbourne could acquit him. He _was_ a master manipulator, always on the alert for a means to advance his own interests. Why this sudden appeal to the queen, in a cause to which he was little attached? Disraeli's own father had rejected Judaism, and neither of them showed any prior allegiance to the Jewish cause. Melbourne had never forgotten a much-younger Benjamin Disraeli begging an introduction from Mrs. Norton to the Prime Minister.

"I will follow in your footsteps, Lord Melbourne," was the first sentence he'd uttered, with a shrewdly assessing look in those ink-black eyes. "Someday I will be in the position you now occupy, First Minister and adviser to the Queen."

Melbourne felt a sudden lurch in his stomach and bile rose to the back of his throat. An image came unbidden, of lonely, widowed Victoria assiduously courted, even fawned over, by a scheming Prime Minister Disraeli. He pushed that unpleasantness from his mind and turned his attention to the present.

Simple proximity might have led to more, except Victoria's feather light caresses communicated only a wish to nurture and cherish. Melbourne was privately grateful for a few more days' healing of the incision before he put it to the test. After having stroked him into blissful ease she withdrew her hand and chastely kissed his cheek.

He snuffed the candle and she squirmed herself into the curve of his body. His chin just rested atop her head and her bottom nestled comfortably into his groin. Her bare feet, always icy, slid between his shins.

"Mmm, nice," Victoria whispered in the dark. "We fit together so perfectly."

" _Perfectly_ ," Melbourne repeated, his breath just stirring her hair. _Physically, but in so many other ways as well. Any fool can see the differences between us, even beyond age and station. She_ a naïf, incapable of deception, wearing her heart on her sleeve. _He_ had imbibed polite deception with his mother's milk, understanding that bluntness rarely made a smooth path. _She_ was impulsive by nature and struggled with even benign dissembly. _He_ saw complexity and understood nuance, while she preferred simplistic, one-dimensional interpretations. People, in his considered opinion and long experience, were rarely all good or all bad, a concept Victoria struggled to accept.

When he'd contemplated the passage of time, it had always been in terms of his eventual decline and inevitable passing. Victoria had given him something new to consider. She was and would always be his precious girl, but she was right that she was a woman too. Over the years he had watched her grow into herself, become as confident a woman and wife as she was a sovereign. His urge to shelter and protect would prevail, honed by her youthful emotional volatility, now moderated by maturity. Melbourne now understood that loving was about _receiving_ as much as _giving_ , no matter how uncomfortable such a transition might make him. It was all a part of the privilege of growing together.

 _As she said_ – Melbourne sighed, feeling residual sensory bliss to his very toes – _we fit together so perfectly_.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday the 30th day of May in the Year of Our Lord 1847. Melbourne would have been pleased, had the night gone on longer. But it was not to be. With summer nearly upon them, the eastern sky began lightening just after three o'clock, and at precisely 3:49AM the sun crested the horizon. There was no unbroken aspect from which to witness daybreak from Buckingham Palace but the delicate pastel lights of dawn softened the roofs and spires of their great capital city. _The sun on my face like a benediction._ There was that phrase again, recollected seemingly at random. Melbourne rather liked the sound of the words, but was frustrated at his inability to place them in context.

He hadn't slept a wink, and hadn't expected to; he counted himself fortunate that the knot of tension in the pit of his stomach hadn't burgeoned into full-blown dyspepsia. Stomach ailments were most likely to plague him on truly momentous occasions. On the day of her Coronation he had scarcely been able to stand, weak from a night's purging and groggy from the nostrums pressed on him to get through the ceremony. As for the part he played in Victoria and Albert's wedding, preceding her up the aisle with the great Sword of State – well, suffice it to say that even his roiling emotions were superseded by his roiling gut. Holding that damned sword upright without a list or wobble, feeling a thousand eyes on him, while frantically swallowing bitter bile – the poets would never compose sonnets to a man who lost his dignity along with his heart.

Down the Mall, beyond the arch, he could just make out the smoke of early fires of impromptu camps set up by those who had traveled from the country. The Metropolitan police – the _Peelers_ , they were called in some boroughs – had their hands full ensuring a semblance of order. It was estimated some seventy-five thousand visitors had come to celebrate the occasion, and only a fraction of those had secured respectable accommodation. The others set themselves up in the parks and along the parade route, sleeping rough, eager to take advantage of the Queen's generosity.

Victoria had provided, out of her private funds, meat and bread and ale. Wooden stands were erected to dispense refreshments, augmented by enterprising street vendors hawking delicacies unknown outside of London proper. Peddlers hawked gewgaws and flowers and hothouse fruits obtained who-knows-where, along with garish painted souvenirs to mark the occasion.

Kew Gardens was thrown open, admission free to all visitors for the duration, and all along the River Thames pleasure craft and barges were decorated with miles of bunting. Several street fairs had sprung up in the past few days, offering amusements and attractions designed to appeal to even the most jaded Londoner.

Melbourne could see some of this from his vantage on an east-facing balcony, and knew of the rest from his _incognito_ rides through town. He and Victoria, upon their return from Brocket Hall, made a concerted effort to adhere to the usual workaday schedule. It was a futile gesture, since even the Cabinet and Privy Council were distracted by the first full-blown fete of Victoria's reign. Her Coronation had been a modest affair as such things went, her first wedding deliberately understated, and the subsequent prompt arrival of an heir took place at Christmas, when the capital was nearly empty of anyone who mattered. Liam's christening took place on 10 February in an unusually cold winter season. Declared a national holiday conflating Victoria's birthday, the tenth anniversary of her ascension to the throne and the baptism of her youngest child, gave the aristocracy and commoners alike a reason to celebrate at her expense.

He might have remained as he was, unshaven, in yesterday's shirt and rumpled trousers, lost in idle reverie. Instead Melbourne shook his head to clear it and turned on his heel, determined to steal a few precious minutes of peace before the storm broke overhead.

The children's apartments were his sanctuary, a bastion of sweetness and warmth. From the modest single room where he had once held vigil over a newborn prince away from prying eyes, the suite of rooms now encompassed playroom, schoolroom and sleeping chambers for each child, with a closet adjacent each for the night nurses who attended them. Baroness Lehzen and Baroness Lyttleton, de facto and titular governesses, had small apartments in the corridor where the Queen's ladies-in-waiting were housed.

Freddy slept in the absurd posture of infancy, cheek mashed against the mattress of his cradle, rear end raised with his knees tucked under. Melbourne was tempted to straighten his limbs and arrange him in a more comfortable position but before he could do so the baby awakened. That one blue eye regarded him solemnly.

"Good morning, little man," he murmured, gently lifting him, careful to support the wobbly head, and cradled him in the crook of his arm. As soon as they were detected, they would be interrupted by a flurry of activity. The night nurse would send a hall page to summon the day nurse and wet nurse and a lesser personage, one of the nursery maids, would be tasked with removing and replacing soiled garments and bindings.

"Not yet, eh?" Melbourne gazed at his son quizzically and was rewarded with a smile. More knowledgeable persons, his own sister included, were adamant that those quirks of the tiny rosebud mouth were not smiles but merely gas. "Phooey, you and I know you smile when they're not looking. Let them think what they will, my boy."

He picked up a shawl and covered the baby, warm and damp from sleep. Then he walked to a long casement window and parted the drapes.

"Do you see that? All of that, all of those people already taking their place along the route, are there to see you. Your Mama wants to show you off." Unimpressed, Freddy put his fist in his mouth and sucked contentedly.

_If only it were true_ , Melbourne thought. He understood what Victoria intended, and even understood why. This day and this public extravaganza was to show _him_ to the people, if not culmination of, then a firm next step in, her campaign to ensure his place in the history of her reign. He did not doubt, not for a moment, either her devotion to him or her care for his sentiments, but in this she took a longer view. Long after both their lifetimes, she was determined that _Victoria and William_ would be linked in perpetuity. Early on, soon after her first marriage, there had been a great rush to honor the young Queen by honoring her young husband. The _Albert_ this and _Victoria and Albert_ that, ships and buildings were hastily endowed with the Prince Consort's name. Three short years later, the Coburg boy was in his grave and Victoria free to marry the man she loved. She had been fond enough of Albert her cousin but was adamant that Albert her husband be expunged from national memory.

Melbourne understood all of it, and grasped as well the fundamental dynastic implications. They had no opposition, their marriage was accepted as a _fait accompli_ when Albert was scarcely in the ground. He had certain misgivings about Victoria's stubborn take-no-prisoners approach, but overall conceded that she was the Queen and history hers to make or remake.

What tormented him privately, was no more than vanity and self-regard, and for that reason he could never express it aloud. _Forty years older_ – the knowledge lacerated his pride, that such calculations were inevitable. He had known mockery, ridicule and scandal, been the butt of jokes for Caroline's flamboyant pursuit of the poet, been lampooned mercilessly during the Norton trial. During the poet's ascendancy, Melbourne had retreated from public life, hidden himself away for months on end. Not from a broken heart or want of spirit, but from the infliction of well-meant sympathy. He had seen the pitying looks, heard the whispers of _poor William_.

This reprieve, this stolen happiness – it could all be so easily destroyed. Not from without – there were no declared enemies – but from within, if his spirit were broken by a resurgence of the old mockery. And why shouldn't they mock? _Forty years older_. In private, in the sanctuary, the fortress of their marriage and the bonds of body, mind and heart, his age was a fact, no more. But held up to public scrutiny, comparisons were inevitable. All that was most precious, most private, most sacred, would be put on display for the public to pick apart, to mock and ridicule.

_Sixty-seven years old!_ She will deck me out in finery and put me beside her in an open carriage, and I will ride past the masses, gawking, gaping, crude and critical _hoi polloi_ who like nothing better than to tear down –

"What, little princeling?" Melbourne became aware that Freddy, usually so good-natured, was fussing and restive. "No, no, mustn't fuss. Did Papa upset you? Never mind then. Remember what your grandmama Elizabeth said – we must never allow them to see beyond the mask."

"My Papa! My grandmama Elizabeth!"

Lily stood at his feet, stomping one bare foot, her expression full of outrage.

"You said she was _his_ grandmama but she's not. She's _mine_. You _said_ so."

Lily's dark hair was a cascade of tangled curls, and her scowl was ferocious. Melbourne knew better than to laugh, but it was a close thing; she was especially adorable when displaying a fit of outrage.

"She is yours and Freddy's and Liam's, my darling daughter. Just as she was my Mama and Fred's and Emily's, and our other brothers' too. You see? Families must share."

They no longer were as careful as they'd once been, about avoiding any overt mention of the older children's parentage. In public, it could not be spoken aloud; in the dubious privacy of the palace, surrounded by seven hundred-odd servants and half a hundred wellborn retainers, they'd grown more casual about such assertions.

"Put him _down_ and pick me up, Papa. Take me out of doors please. I want to pick some cherry blossoms for Mama."

"In your nightdress and bare feet, princess? I think not. However, let us go together and find Freddy's nurse. I do believe he could benefit from a change of clothing and will be hungry soon."

On cue, Freddy began sucking his fist in earnest.

_Only six o'clock_. _We have time._ Four hours until they would step into the open landau, specially ordered for the occasion, pristine white with gilt trim, pulled by a team of white horses. Five hours until they would stand in Westminster Abbey, before the Lily font filled with water from the River Jordan. Six hours until they would return to the Palace and host a gala luncheon for visiting dignitaries and their own aristocratic countrymen.

Melbourne stood in the doorway, hesitating. He had gone to bed with Victoria, waiting until she was asleep to slip out and begin his sleepless vigil. She slept still, looking as innocent and untouched as the girl she had been, dark hair framing a prettily flushed face, complexion creamy and unlined. The lace trim on her nightdress fluttered with each exhalation, tickling her nose so that it wrinkled adorably in response.

He lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the bed, not wanting to disturb her yet. Victoria was so entirely attuned to his every mood that he was unsure of his ability to conceal all trepidation.

"Good morning." Her voice startled him.

"Good morning," Melbourne answered, hearing the gruff tenderness in his own voice.

"You're up early."

"I went to see Freddy. Our young man is an early riser."

"And you are not, in general. Did you sleep at all?" Victoria's palm cupped his chin, her thumb rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

"Not very much," Melbourne admitted.

"Then come lay beside me. You needn't sleep, if you can't. Or talk, if you don't wish to. Just lay beside me."

Melbourne marveled, not for the first time in recent months, at the calm, reassuring _sense_ of her. As though she, not he, were the protector; as if he could lay his burdens at her feet and all would be well. _Stuff and nonsense_ , he told himself, chuckling. _She's my precious girl and it's my job, my_ privilege _, to protect her._

He did as she bade him, kicking off his slippers and swinging his long legs onto the bed. It felt good, he admitted, to rest his head on a feather pillow. He felt the tension drain out of his shoulders and exhaled heavily.

"Everything will go exactly as planned," Victoria said softly, as if she were talking to herself. "We will smile and wave – as _you_ taught me, Lord M – and Billy will be there with his agents to keep us safe, and the Household division will maintain order. Then we will go into the Abbey, and it will be like my Coronation, only better, because you will be beside me and everything is much simpler. And then we will return by the same route, and all the people in the streets will care about is the free food and beer, and the entertainments we have provided, and that they have a holiday at our expense. They will see the glitter and gold and cheer because they like a spectacle, and because we remind them of who they are as Englishmen."

Melbourne had nearly dozed off, lulled by her sweet clear voice. He roused himself with some difficulty and Victoria, realizing, giggled. Just like that, she cast off the mantle of wise maturity and was a girl again – _his_ girl, his infinitely precious girl.

She turned onto her side and curled herself against him.

"Together, we are Victoria and William. Now, here, and today, in the street, and forever after. Children will learn their history lessons a hundred, two hundred years from now, and will memorize our names as one. _Victoria and William_." Her voice was firm and sure once more, but then she squirmed luxuriously, until she was perfectly comfortable.

Melbourne put aside his dread, closed the door on his shameful secret vanity that feared ridicule more than anything else in life. He could, he would, perform, smiling genially without ever meeting any one person's eyes. He would endure the gilded carriage for the sake of the girl at his side, would shut out everything else to watch his _lawfully born_ son given his name. He would sit back proudly and let Lily wave to the crowds with abandon, would lend his shy elder son the fortitude to play his own public part. It was, as she said, the two of them together.

_Perhaps the day won't be so bad after all_ , he decided, shifting so that his own longer body shaped itself to Victoria's slight form. Breathing in the fragrance of her hair and skin, Melbourne finally fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, I've brought the thing off well, if I do say so myself. Nothing in precedent to guide us, you know." Henry Granville Fitzalan-Howard, 14th Duke of Norfolk, English peer, Whig politician as well as hereditary Earl Marshal.

The latter position entailed oversight of all State ceremonies, great and small. As a Roman Catholic, some found especial irony in a Howard at the helm of Church of England sacramental occasions while others wryly observed that High Church would prevail so long as a Howard was in charge.

"Lord Melbourne looks damned comfortable, and pretty pleased with himself." The 2nd Duke of Buckingham and Chandos was, like Wellington, a Tory and like Wellington, had the soul of a roué and the heart of a staunchly patriotic Englishman. Neither of their titles were more venerable than Melbourne's 2nd Viscountcy, and each had been created rather than inherited.

"The incumbent of a title that's scarcely ten minutes old is the _cause_ of it all." Augusta Howard, nee Lyons, spoke with the assurance of her husband's ancient lineage. Her own parentage was not nearly so illustrious, a fact Arthur Wellesley contemplated with a tight smile.

"Come now, Augusta," Arthur Wellesley chided playfully. "He doesn't lord it over us, and if he's been behind a single preferment that's more than I know." His own Dukedom was scarcely two decades older than Melbourne's, his original title only a single generation old. That fact perhaps accounted for his cautionary tone, but his affection for William Lamb was sincere. Their amicable relationship spanned decades and had weathered the first Mrs. William's dalliance with the venerable Hero of Waterloo and an ideological divide which existed more in name than practice.

"Quite right, old boy. I like the current situation well enough. So long as _she's_ happy she isn't prone to interfere and there isn't a man alive who can point to an instance of Melbourne pushing his advantage. If advantage it is, to live in a gilded cage. O'Connell himself spoke no ill of William Lamb as a man, and Brougham calls him friend." Wellington's attention waned and he turned to watch the recessional move past.

Walking behind the clergymen in their flowing vestments, Melbourne shepherded his little family down the length of the nave. They made a pretty picture, the Commander-in-Chief had to admit. He as much as anyone alive knew mere mortals lived behind the veil of royal mystery. Victoria, aided no doubt by Melbourne's worldly experience, had found just the right balance. To remain viable in their increasingly egalitarian age, the sovereign must embody both the familiar and sublime, must represent idealized humanity while shrouded in glittering mystique.

She did it well, their little Queen, wearing aloofness like a gossamer shield. Only the keenest observer – and Wellington was – might catch a glimpse of their inner life, when the queen would glance briefly at Melbourne and he would reassure her with the merest tightening of his lips, a barely perceptible reassuring nod which spoke volumes of the intimacy and understanding between them.

Melbourne, for his part, was unchanged, from the man Wellington had known nigh on forty years. Always genial, seemingly on the verge of laughter, those sleepy gray eyes not quite concealing a shrewd natural intelligence. Wellington begrudged his old friend nothing, certainly not a well-deserved and long-overdue domestic happiness, but catching those brief glimpses of a perfect partnership between husband and wife made him feel quite lonely.

The final notes of the recessional hymn faded away just as they stepped out of the dim interior into the glare of the noonday sun. Wellington heard himself gasp involuntarily at the uncanny image, Melbourne and his Victoria and their beautiful children outlined by a hazy golden nimbus, as though blessed by Heaven above.

"Eyes playing tricks," he muttered, laughing at himself. Then he stepped smartly forward, stealing a march on Norfolk, wanting to be the first to congratulate Melbourne and the Queen.

♛

Norfolk and his committee had done a creditable job, Melbourne thought. It had been no easy task, planning every detail of an event of this magnitude whilst making it appear simple. The baptism itself had been a part of the regular Sunday service, no different than every country parish.

Victoria had her own reasons for making it public, but to the people it struck just the right chord. She had embraced Mr. Dickens' advice wholeheartedly, and relied upon the central premise – that to remain relevant, she must craft a role for herself with the care and imagination of a playwright. She would write the script and set the stage and play her part for a lifetime. _An ideal_ , Dickens had explained to Victoria and Melbourne. Victoria had eventually agreed in theory. Although the idea rankled – that she must exert herself to retain the support of the people, something which would never have occurred to her predecessors - Victoria had adopted enough of Melbourne's pragmatism to agree and even employ the advice of Mr. Dickens in her campaign to rewrite history.

All of that and more and less ran through Melbourne's mind as he stood to one side of the baptismal font. The prayers and responsorial psalms, droning voices and soaring notes, lulled him into reverie. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers and beeswax, face powder and ancient stones, and seemed to shimmer before his eyes.

Melbourne wondered at the absence of tension, gone with only tranquility in its place. No trace of anxiety remained, even as he poked and prodded the corners of his mind, suspicious of this unfamiliar lightness of being. All he could find was a sense of perfect rightness. Serendipity? Perhaps. Not even a hint of that old nagging sense that he was an impostor living someone else's life, that it was all too good, too entirely perfect, a dream from which he would be rudely awakened.

Leopold and his Louisa, who proudly held Freddy in her arms. King Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia beside Princess Sophia. Frederick Lamb shoulder to shoulder with Helene, the Duchess of Orléans. The godparents stood in a half-circle around the font in poses of reverence, watching the Very Rev. William Buckland. Melbourne felt sudden affection for every one of those present, all those who for reasons of their own hastened across the Channel to honor his flesh and blood. And Victoria, _Victoria_. Source of his joy, her love his redemption. Small and sweet and self-contained, larger than life.

Just then her eyes met his, a questioning look and then they crinkled at the corners with silent amusement. Her whole face softened, lit from within, when she smiled at him.

♛

"I thought I might be quite drenched with perspiration…"

"Ah, Ma'am, Queens do not perspire…"

"This one does. Never mind, I will not complain of the heat. It's a splendid day for procession, and the parks will be fill with revelers. Look there – wave, Lord M…"

Melbourne and Victoria rode in an open landau with the two older children, whilst Freddy, by prearrangement, had been whisked away even before they'd left the shelter of the Abbey.

Liam sat up straight and his pale, delicate features were still and remote while he waved his hand mechanically. Had he been older, an adolescent or young adult, such an expression might have conveyed aristocratic disdain. At six-and-a-half it showed only a valiant effort to conceal shyness bordering on real fear. Each time Liam's gentle grey eyes flickered towards his own, Melbourne smiled back reassuringly.

People lined both sides of their carefully planned route, having turned out en masse to see the glittering spectacle and partake of free food and drink set out at intervals. Not one in a hundred, Melbourne reckoned cynically, cared a whit what occasioned such festivities. They might call out good-natured greetings, shout their blessings on the newest princeling, but it was the Queen's largesse first and foremost, and the glittering spectacle as well, which reminded them they were Royalists. Gilded coaches surrounded by smartly-uniformed Guards in their towering bearskin caps and this close-up glimpse of their pretty young Queen with her handsome family, satisfied a need to feel vicarious pride in Crown and Country.

Melbourne knew that a smile and a wave, judicious, measured eye contact with a lucky individual here and there who would remember the sudden sense of connection with royalty, were what it took to preemptively squelch unrest. The Radicals with their talk of abolishing the monarchy, earnest Socialists preaching common cause, Republicans yelling themselves hoarse with cries of _liberté, égalité, fraternité_ all failed to take into account this barely-understood craving for transcendence.

"Lily – William, catch her!" The sudden sharpness in Victoria's voice startled Melbourne into action and he managed to grasp their little daughter just before she overbalanced and toppled out of the carriage.

"Papa, please unhand me!" Lily demanded, squirming. Ranks of onlookers five and six deep within arms' length of their vehicle made Melbourne glance about, reassuring himself that not only uniformed Guardsmen but Cameron's plain-clothed secret service were at hand.

Lily, the Princess Elizabeth, was at her dimpled, charming best, charming the people with her very genuine smiles, leaning as far as she could to take the poseys and gewgaws she was offered.

"Look at her!" Victoria murmured in a tone somewhere between disapproval and admiration. "I was raised to know my duty and do it, as Liam accepts that it will be his duty someday. But our daughter…"

"Our daughter takes to this sort of thing like a fish to water."

"She believes the people have turned out to see her, and the cheers are for her alone," Victoria observed ruefully.

Melbourne only chuckled, remembering to incline his head and smile at the people they passed. He even lifted his top hat to greet a stout townswoman as though she were a lady, earning audible simpering gasps from every female in view.

"Do you know what I thought of, in the Abbey? My coronation. I knew my part, of course, but still…knowing you were there, it was as though yours were the only eyes I felt."

"You were magnificent, Victoria. Splendid, so young, so innocent and taking on such a great burden."

"But not alone. I had my Lord M to guide me."

Melbourne vividly recalled that day a decade past, his swimming head and churning stomach and underneath all that, the swelling, burgeoning emotion in his breast too vast to contain. _Love_.

"And then I found you bathing your dog…" Victoria, so soon after her own moment of transcendence, had discarded her crown and jewels to wash the little Spaniel. He grinned, thinking of that sight and his own reaction.

"What made you smile, _Lord M_?" She used that old nickname affectionately, a playful lilt in her voice, smiling in return. Their heads turned to one side and another, waving and nodding so the people might imagine those smiles were for them.

Melbourne told her what he could, unable to articulate exactly why that juxtaposition of images, glittering public persona, anointed with holy oils, receiving the obeisance of a thousand lords and ladies, and private flesh-and-blood girl, hair unbound and dress damp from the little dog's splashing, had been the final confirmation he'd needed. _Love. In love with an eighteen-year-old girl._

"Well, I don't think I shall bath any of the dogs today. Liam's monkey, perhaps, if the creature returns from his exile to the barracks reeking like a trooper…"

A stockinged foot peeked, shoeless, from layers of lace-trimmed petticoat. That little foot – Melbourne felt a sudden surge of warmth, lately-stifled urges, and entertained the momentary image, ridiculous as it was, of toppling her back on the velvet cushions in full view of the crowds. He laughed aloud at the thought, hearty uninhibited laughter.

"Papa, take these!" Lily interrupted his foolish musings, shoving a bedraggled silk-flower bouquet into his face. She boosted herself onto his knees and began waving energetically again.

♛

"Travel to France _and_ Belgium?" Melbourne detected, along with surprise, the beginnings of assent as Victoria considered her uncle's request.

"King Louis-Phillipe has lost most of his support, and there is an increasing dissatisfaction amongst even the wealthy bourgeoisie. Under his management, the conditions of the working classes have deteriorated, and the income gap has widened considerably, so says Uncle Leopold. Having us visit him in Paris, even stay at Versailles, would remind the country that he _is_ a King and has the support of England."

Victoria perched on the arm of a chair in Melbourne's dressing room. She smelled of the rosewater lotion she used on her face and her hair hung over her shoulders. Whether by accident or design, her wrapper fell away to reveal a tantalizing expanse of taut thigh.

"Let me," she said, seeing him struggle with a cuff-link. When Victoria came in the valet had tactfully withdrawn, claiming an urgent need to treat a spot on the front of his tailcoat.

"I _would_ like to see Paris and Versailles with you. The only time we spent there together was romantic but all too brief."

Melbourne worked the mother-of-pearl buttons on his shirtfront, biding his time until she offered to come to his aid. He secretly relished the small, homely tasks she undertook in his care, savoring the sense of being fussed over and cared for.

"As I would like to see Paris and Versailles with _you_ , my darling. But a failing France on the verge of another collapse…an unpopular king, when they've already proven to the world's horror they know how to rid themselves of kings. And queens."

"We will go to Brussels as planned? Uncle is quite eager for a commitment."

"As you wish, ma'am. Brussels was the centre of the expatriate community, when we thought Napoleon safely tucked away. I daresay I can show you a side of your uncle's capital he himself hasn't – " Melbourne stopped himself, considering Leopold's bon vivant, libertine side. "Well, perhaps he has, but wouldn't consider it quite the thing for a devoted uncle acting in loco parentis to show his niece."

"Oooh, naughty places? Perhaps, if we were incognito…" Victoria finished the last of the buttons and reached her hands up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It caught on his suspenders, making her giggle and sway against him.

"Shall we read Louis-Phillipe's letter together? Perhaps it will enlighten us as to his motivation, and the strategy he intends to deploy. My money's on flattery and guilt, but perhaps he will sweeten the offer with something to appeal to your Government. We can't undertake a State visit without their consent."

Victoria's nose wrinkled briefly, indication of her distaste at any reminder she wasn't in fact omnipotent. Soon enough she was wearing a softer expression, blue eyes suddenly dark and burning.

"I think not quite now," she purred, running the very tips of her fingers down the length of his torso, a touch so butterfly-light that it made his nipples harden.

"'Not now'?" Melbourne repeated, already stirred. "Why, Mrs. Melbourne, do you have something else in mind?"


	6. Chapter 6

Duchesse_d'Orléans Elisabeth Ludovika Queen_of_Prussia

* * *

"My dear William, I can assure you that many people who are, in fact, quite indifferent to politics, _renchérissent_ in their expressions of dislike and contempt _seulement_ , because they believe the Queen been influenced by your opinions. Many wise people repeat sayings which they assume come from your mouth, such as, for instance, that "Louis Philippe can never be trusted, being, after all, an old fox."

Victoria pressed her lips together, willing back the sudden surge of annoyance at her uncle's patent refusal to believe her capable of forming her own opinions. _Yes_ , certainly William expressed himself to her privately, but _she_ was the Queen and entitled – no, obligated – weigh all views before reaching her own conclusion. And Louis-Philippe was most definitely a fox, cunning and obsessed with his own temporal survival.

She blushed, scowled, and retreated, suddenly sure she must have repeated Lord M's colorful descriptor injudiciously.

The familiar timbre of Melbourne's voice reached her, low, gravelly, slightly raspy and prone crack most charmingly at inopportune moments. Victoria debated lingering so she could hear more, weighing the impulse against the odds of being seen eavesdropping on her own husband and uncle.

A soft _snick_ told her that their discussion had not interrupted the game of billiards they were playing.

"Ah, but my dear fellow, he _is_ an old fox, you must agree. If you think otherwise, perhaps a joint State visit to France would be possible. How much more persuasive would it be, for England and Belgium both to demonstrate their allegiance to the French monarchy?"

_My dearest, darling William – my Lord M_ , Victoria thought with a rush of pride. Is there any man alive _who can more deftly avoid confrontation without giving in?_ The suggestion would be roundly rejected by Leopold, who had no intention of taking such a public stand in support of his father-in-law's wobbly throne. No more than she herself did, once she had considered the matter.

A private sojourn in Paris would be pleasant diversion; a State visit to the King at this juncture would only give Parliament reason to refuse her. And Harry, dear Henry Temple, might be a lovable rogue who thought nothing of getting down on all fours to play horsie with Lily, but as Foreign Minister, _that_ Lord Palmerston would seize the opportunity to repay her most recent attempt to rein him in for his high-handedness.

Holding her skirts close to prevent them rustling audibly, Victoria retreated to her own study.

John Ponsonby, the Earl of Bessborough, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and Caro's elder brother, had died on the 16th. Victoria could not personally attend his memorial services, so would delegate Melbourne to represent her. Lord John Russell and his Cabinet recommended Lord Clarendon as his successor, until such time as the position could be phased out, and she would announce his appointment to the Privy Council.

More urgent – and Victoria mentally bookmarked the issue, to talk over with Melbourne – the Radicals and Protectionists joined to attack the Government for their interference in Portugal. _We are in terrible hot water,_ Victoria scrawled in the working journal she kept, intending it for Melbourne's eyes. _But I think we shall get out of it._ A change of Government due to the turmoil would be full of mischief for the future, independent of the great inconvenience. If Russell failed to stand firm, and the Crown with him, it would cripple all future governments in their conduct respecting foreign affairs, Palmerston said, and create distrust abroad in English promises.

_Damned if you do and damned if you don't_ , Melbourne would say. Victoria grinned when she heard his voice in her head.

It was a fine thing, to rely on William completely and know that he would never usurp her royal authority. She never had to _ask_ him to run interference on her behalf, or to spare her dignity when she must capitulate without appearing to do so. He not only took the blame when some party or other took offense, or even – and at this, Victoria felt her cheeks grow uncomfortably warm – when she herself overstepped and a course correction was required.

Melbourne had a seemingly bottomless reservoir of credit to draw upon, and thought nothing of expending it on her behalf. _Oh, it's just Melbourne; he meant no harm_ , was the verdict when he claimed responsibility for an unpopular stance she had originally supported. He did it for the Crown, of course, which must remain blameless; but he did it for love of her as well. They were a team and pulled well in tandem, he the genial elder statesman regarded fondly even by those who didn't necessarily respect him; she the stern, benevolent sovereign, viewed with awe and admiration.

Victoria realized she'd been daydreaming and briskly took up her pen.

"Prince Frederick begs an audience with Your Majesty."

Melbourne stood in the doorway, holding little Freddy face-forward in a cloth sling. The baby's eyes were opened wide, bright and attentive.

"All the grandees assembled in his honor, yet our little Prince is quite neglected."

"Oh, darling, do take him out of that contraption before someone sees you. You look like a…a Red Indian carrying a papoose." Victoria laughed softly to show him she was only teasing.

"You confuse your savage races, ma'am. I believe if he were a papoose he would be fastened to a board on my back."

She lifted the baby free of his sling and held him against her bosom.

"I am glad you brought him. I see the Council at four, and tonight we are going to the Opera."

"Ah…Miss Lind?" Melbourne arched his brows and widened his eyes in a credibly lecherous leer.

"Yes, Miss Lind. It's said that _Norma_ is her best part yet. Poor Grisl is quite going off and after one sees Lind, she seems quite passé."

"If you say so, ma'am. I'll be with the prettiest girl at the opera, so my eyes will be blinded to Miss Lind's charms. And as I have no ear for music and consider it all screeching, I must be content to feast on you with my eyes."

"Pretty speech, William. Will you tell me how it went with Uncle? Are you two still getting along?"

"Passably, I think." Melbourne settled in the wooden-armed chair across from Victoria and brushed a bit of chalk dust from his sleeve. "Your uncle and I get on well enough. He's a shrewd fellow, but then I needn't tell you that. He conceded that he has no intention of publicly taking a stand to bolster his father-in-law's popularity, and in doing so had to forgo any hope to persuade you to do what he will not."

"Portugal," Victoria said flatly, pushing a sheaf of papers toward him. While he read she turned her full attention on the baby, cooing silly questions in the gentle singsong voice that came so naturally this third time around.

"Nothing _to_ do, ma'am. Minto's going over, if he hasn't departed already, and will do everything he can to set matters right. I'd stay out of it, if I were you."

Victoria's first instinct, to protest that the Portuguese Queen was her friend, was easily squelched. Personal inclinations had no relevance; this was a matter for the Government to decide. It was frustrating and sometimes offensive, to acknowledge the strict limits on her own authority, but gave one a ready excuse to do nothing, and _nothing_ was generally the wisest course of action in Lord M's opinion.

"Tomorrow we go to a ball at Stafford House and on Thursday to one at Gloucester House. Emily wanted to host a fête but instead she will join our party. As you suggested."

Melbourne had suggested that for his sister to achieve the signal honor of hosting two Kings and the Queen herself, would only bring down on Emily the wrath of those who were already jealous of Lord and Lady Palmerston's familial connection to the Crown. Instead, she and her husband would form part of the party accompanying Victoria and Melbourne.

"You always know just what to say and do, Lord M. Will I ever get it right?"

"You _get it right_ now, my love, and always have. But suffering from an excess of courage has never been my burden to bear, therefore I have a knack for finding the path of least resistance. There are times – many, many times – when your courage and instinctive sense of what is right show you the way. All I contribute is, perhaps, a tempering expediency." Melbourne shrugged, and his smile was self-deprecating.

Victoria did not underestimate the very qualities he named, but her single-minded clarity of purpose sometimes blinded her to all other considerations, including what was _possible_ in extenuating circumstances. If it was _right_ and _moral_ and _her will_ , it must be done, a stubbornly simplistic measure she only grudgingly relinquished.

"And you are off to Lord Bessborough's service at St. Paul's this afternoon."

"I am. John was a good friend to me, and a damned good Irish Secretary. Better than I was."

"You remained friends throughout the…" Victoria allowed her voice to trail off. It had grown easier over time to speak of Melbourne's first marriage, but she never entirely shed her trepidation. It was a time and place she had no part in, and it was strange beyond comprehension that he'd lived a full life before. _Knowing_ a thing was true was not the same as feeling that truth, and her darling William a husband and father long before she was born seemed at once entirely familiar yet an impossibility.

"There were some prickly patches, when the families were in opposition, but not nearly as many as you'd think. John praised me highly, more highly than I deserved, for refusing to divorce Caro. Everyone expected something of me – Mother, Em, our friends, the whole of society, even the King. Only Caro accepted me as I was."

It was an odd thing to say, and Victoria pondered it at length. Each time thought she was close to fully understanding this wonderfully complex man, he revealed another facet of his character. William and Caroline, clinging to each other amidst the shipwreck of their married life while storms raged around them. _No wonder_ , she thought, _they never divorced_. They _knew_ each other in a way no one else did. Friendship, familiarity and shared history were not so easily cast aside.

"And you." He'd spoken so softly Victoria blinked, not quite certain she hadn't imagined it.

"You see me, truly see me, and accept me as I am. You ask nothing but my love, and that I have in abundance, my girl."

He'd risen from his chair and bent over hers, turning up her face to look in her eyes. Victoria caressed his cheek with her hand, rubbing her thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone.

"I see you, and adore you, Lord M. Now and forever."

♛

Victoria, exhilarated and inspired, had hurried through the champagne supper laid out for them when they returned from the opera. It was an informal midnight repast, so when she slipped out her departure was scarcely noted.

Helene, Duchesse de Orleans, was in her element, surrounded by willing listeners. The Prussian King paid her rapt attention, while his Queen Consort Elisabeth conversed with Melbourne.

Victoria scarcely permitted her maid to remove the pins holding her tiara in place and return her jewels to their leather cases. She was eager to capture the images in her mind, of the beautiful Miss Lind.

Bare feet propped on a low stool, she balanced her drawing pad against her knees and began sketching. She lost all track of time and was deeply engrossed in the forms taking shape on paper when she heard noises in the dressing room adjoining her apartment.

"Still up?" Melbourne asked. He was still in his tailcoat, although his white silk cravat hung loose and the top buttons of his shirt were already undone. "I thought you retired with a headache, my dear."

Victoria looked up, then stared, her attention entirely on the divinely handsome figure he made. Melbourne's face was lightly tanned from riding and the brisk walks he favored, and was noble in mien. Victoria could readily envision him as a Roman senator, and had once begged him to allow her to commission a marble statute in classic toga to show off his long legs and manly physique. Melbourne had laughed to tears the very idea, and she'd said no more about it but from time to time the fantasy arose.

_Arose_. Victoria warmed, remembering.

"You're beautiful, Lord M," she said, hearing the hushed reverence in her own voice. He chuckled, amused, embarrassed, but also pleased, Victoria thought.

"And you have had too much champagne, to say something so silly to a man of my age."

"I haven't had any champagne – well, at any rate, not too much. You _are_ beautiful! Your face and…oh, stop laughing and look at what I've drawn."

She held her sketch out for examination, feeling suddenly bashful. Drawing was a near-obsession at times, although she had no great opinion of her own talent. It was something she _needed_ to do, rather than a purely utilitarian discipline.

"Very nice. You've captured an impression of movement, fluid and graceful, although I'm damned if I know how, in pencil on paper."

"You mustn't swear, dear," Victoria chided absently. "The children are old enough to mimic you."

" _Lily_ is the one audacious enough to do so. Why, just yesterday she scolded a footman by calling him a _damned_ nincompoop."

"That is not funny, and I hope you didn't laugh," Victoria said, unable to stop her own laughter.

Melbourne flung himself down on the bed, still fully clothed and shod. Victoria was torn between her desire to continue drawing and the urge to join him. She laid down paper and charcoal and brushed the dust from her hands.

"You're still dressed, silly." Victoria pulled off his shoes and let them drop to the rug. "You'll dirty the silk coverlet."

"Nag, nag, nag," Melbourne growled, pretending sternness, and swatted her backside.

"Shall I rub your back for you? Does it ache?"

"Mmm…I won't say no, although I was quite comfortable. Now that I'm no longer required to stand at attention in the back of your box."

Once upon a time, in the early days, Albert sat at her side. Protocol wouldn't bend far enough to permit even the Queen to invite a mere Viscount to sit in the Royal box.

Victoria flopped back on the mattress gracelessly, making the bed jiggle.

"Come here, hoyden," Melbourne said, stretching his arms wide in invitation. Victoria settled herself comfortably, then groaned.

"You're still dressed, Lord M. Please go now and come back properly attired for the Queen's bed. Else I shall fall asleep without you and you can sleep in your own bedchamber."

"You, my darling girl, are turning into quite the scold. Very well." _Smack_ , his palm landed on her buttocks again. "But you will most certainly _not_ go to sleep without me."

_J. Lind as Norma. VR del 1847_


	7. Chapter 7

Melbourne was mildly annoyed. By the further demand on his already-limited time, by the presumption of the medical men and most of all, by the cocksure youthful arrogance of this boy wonder.

"How do you do?" Melbourne rumbled, forcing himself to express only his habitual _je ne sais quoi_. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and should be more so, once I pull my trousers up."

It was nothing new, that someone should impose on the slightest familiarity by presenting a protégé or patronage-seeker. It was decidedly new such introduction was affected within the examination room of one's physician.

"Certainly, certainly, Lord Melbourne. We'll wait." His own attending surgeon looked away, nudging the younger man with his elbow.

Melbourne had originally appeared in these Harley Street rooms of his own volition, rather than summoning a surgeon to the Palace, only to keep any talk from reaching Victoria's ears. The _petite procédure médicale_ , including administration of volatile gas, had been accomplished without undue fuss or fanfare and as of today, declared a success. Only the closest visual examination might detect the fine well-healed surgical scar, or so Melbourne had been told – it was located in a place he himself could not see, feeling squeamish at the very notion.

He had noticed the young man lurking in a corner and gave it no further thought. Medical practitioners at the height of their fame often employed young students to assist and thereby pass on their craft.

Relying on natural _savoir-faire_ he could not quite feel at the moment, Melbourne rose. Standing, his shirt curtained those private bits so recently on display and he was able to pull up drawers and trousers with a modicum of dignity.

"This young fellow is Rudolf Carl Virchow. He's made quite a name for himself already, in some circles."

"Your Honor," the young man said, bowing so that a forelock of dark waving hair fell over his eyes. Something about him, beyond the accent, reminded Melbourne of young Albert, his own protégé in London society. And, of course, Victoria's husband for three short years.

"Herr Virchow. What brings you to London?"

"I have been invited to speak before the Royal Society," was the answer. "Only so you know my bona fides – I do not mean to boast – I studied with two prominent professors of anatomy and medicine, of whom you may have heard, Johannes Müller and Johann Schönlein, at the Friedrich-Wilhelms Institut in Berlin. I became a licensed doctor in 1846 and traveled to Vienna to further study methods in pathology. I succeeded Froriep as prosector at the Charité Hospital and when I return to Berlin after this visit, I will take up a new post at the University of Berlin."

Melbourne attended closely to the recitation, curious what it was leading up to.

"Very impressive, Herr Virchow. And what brings you _here_?" Melbourne spread his hands out, palms up, to indicate the Harley Street consultation room.

"You do, my Lord."

Virchow explained in painstaking detail the nature of his interest. One of the many scientific pursuits to capture the young fellow's attention was post-mortem evidence of arterial weakening without external trauma in victims of a fatal apoplexy. 

"It is accepted that hemorrhagic strokes – several of which, I was led to believe, you previously suffered – can be caused by gradual deterioration of cerebral arteries under the stress of chronic hypertension. Treatment hasn't changed in several hundred years, extending no further than frequent application of leeches to reduce pressure by reducing blood volume. You've adhered closely to a strict regimen that _may_ account for your continued good health. Many or more of my colleagues would call it no more than primitive superstition, that changes in diet and vigorous exercise can have anything whatsoever to do with the outcome of a strictly medical condition."

Melbourne arranged the folds of his neckcloth by touch alone, vanity making him wish for a looking glass. He only half-attended to the prissy voice, disinterested to the point of aversion in the underlying topic. Mortality was something he preferred _not_ to look in the face, and to discuss his own state of health absent compelling need seemed to tempt fate. _Ironic_ , he thought _, that to Victoria I pretend a pragmatism I am so far from feeling._ Melbourne feared death less only than he dreaded infirmity, being rendered a bedridden invalid before his young wife's eyes.

"But the dictum still stands, that the best predictor of a future stroke is one or more previous cerebral strokes. In your case, your habitually high blood pressures seem unaffected by your otherwise healthful habits and I am exploring another possibility, that excessive pressure causes a tendency to form clots through some as-of-yet poorly understood mechanism…"

_Money, of course he wanted money_. No, Melbourne privately conceded, that is too crass an interpretation. Virchow did name a substantial sum, to subsidize research he would oversee far from the oversight of his own university. Here, in London, under the auspices of a colleague as interested he in the wonders to be disclosed at autopsy, if post-mortems could be done under rigorous academic conditions. But he also wanted to follow the course of Melbourne's own case, with a patient as dedicated to privacy, even secrecy, as he himself was.

To that end, Virchow described the only current means of obtaining accurate clinical measurement of arterial pressure. In 1733 Reverend Stephen Hales had recorded the first blood pressure measurement on a horse by inserting a long glass tube upright into an artery, observing the increase in pressure as blood was forced up the tube. When Melbourne was sufficiently horrified at the prospect, he deftly swung to a more palatable non-invasive method of his own devising.

Melbourne had nearly reached the Mall before he was able to shake his own dismay at the encounter. Writing a draught for the sum Virchow so cavalierly named would not have been painless, but it would have disturbed him far less than discussion of his probable mortality. _Doubly ironic that my only real importance to the man is that of an amenable private patient with the requisite fatal conditions._

The headaches he suffered at day's end were not severe, certainly not by comparison to his episodic migraines. Only their predictable timing, late afternoon into early evening, had interested his own physician. Taking his own pulse proved nothing, since it was rarely even detectable to inexpert fingers and even when it was, was within normal limits, and only a frequent and easily discernable fast pulse might have provided reason to cancel an operation.

Over the years, Victoria's stern vigilance had the net effect of erasing his old gluttonous tendencies. In his old bachelor days, excessive consumption had been the norm at the gentlemen's clubs he frequented. Dinners with seven, eight and nine courses, platters piled high with fatty beefsteak and well-marbled chops all washed down by bottomless bottles of port succeeded by heavy French brandies accompanied free-wheeling discourse into the early hours of morning. Heavy breakfasts consisting of a half-dozen fried eggs and thick slabs of good country ham started at mid-morning and, if callers shared his table, continued into the afternoon. Exercise was walking the length of Westminster deep in conversation, broken only by country weekends spent puttering about the conservatory.

Victoria, ruefully aware that her own petite form could all to easily run to plumpness courtesy of her Hanoverian blood, fiercely rejected the rich sauces, heavy creams and fatty cuts of meat considered prime. Her self-discipline might have wavered in favor of the sweetmeats and chocolate she adored, except for her insistence on following a healthful diet for Melbourne's sake. Even her aversion to vigorous exercise fell by the wayside, as she began exercising her own dogs at a brisk pace to keep up with Melbourne's long-legged stride.

Whether it had all done any good was now in doubt, thanks to Herr Virchow. Certainly, Melbourne's tendency to corpulence had been successfully kept at bay. He now felt restless when his schedule prevented a vigorous walk through the Palace gardens if they were in town, down wooded paths at Windsor or, in the country, a hard ride across his own fields and down rural lanes. Even his…er…well, stamina had not waned, certainly not as much as was to be expected of a man well past sixty.

Yet now, daily headaches which were not very severe, along with whatever-it-was Virchow's admittedly knowledgeable fingers detected in his pulses – wrist, neck, upper thigh, even groin – led that blasted fool to suggest something dire lurked around the corner.

Marshalling all his considerable facility for denial of any unpleasantness, Melbourne cast off the shadow of his encounter and turned his attention to the view from his carriage. It was a fine spring day and the park was busy with traffic. The fashionable set was out to see and be seen, young ladies strolling in pairs and threesomes, pretending not to take notice of their admirers, matrons riding in open chaises, a daring few even driving their own team with a groom standing behind.

His spirits were lifted at once by the gay sights and sounds, and by the enthusiasm with which his name was called in greeting by each person they passed. Soon he was able to forget entirely that anything untoward had occurred.

The prettiest and most welcome sight of all unfolded as they neared the end of the Mall. Victoria rode her white mare, followed by equerries and attendants. Adagio's pent-up energy didn't detract from its graceful movement, a high-stepping gait which was nearly unforced dressage, as though the horse danced to some internal music. Victoria's seat was impeccable, even in side-saddle. Her back was straight without being rigid, shoulders drawn proudly back in a military-style jacket trimmed with gold brocade and brass buttons.

Melbourne saw the slight quiver which went through her, nearly imperceptible, as she reacted with pleasure when she saw him approach.

"Hullo," he drawled, blowing her a kiss, heedless of onlookers. Suddenly he felt giddy with youthful zest. The breeze was mild and fresh, the day glorious beyond measure and she-

Melbourne leapt jauntily down and held out his hand in a peremptory gesture, willing the nearest outrider to dismount. He swung into the saddle and steered to Victoria's side.

"We can't trot in the park, but oh! how I long to race you," she said gaily, nudging her white horse forward.

"A fortuitous chance meeting," Melbourne said, watching her under the brim of his tall hat.

"Yes, isn't it?" Victoria crooned. Her grin was impish. "So, your…errand was successful?"

"It was indeed," he agreed, thinking only of the surgeon's clean bill of health.

"So there is no restriction on your activities?" She looked at him coyly and Melbourne felt a sudden flush of warmth.

"Did there appear to be, ma'am? I think not. But now – we may proceed with the knowledge that I am fully healed."

"He doesn't – you don't think he –" Victoria stammered, suddenly doubtful. Melbourne laughed at her embarrassment.

"I think he assumes," he responded. "But no, we do not discuss particulars."

"Uncle has gone off on some mysterious engagement. I hope he hasn't renewed his friendship with your Mrs. Norton."

"Must we? Really? She is more your uncle's creature than she ever was mine." They both remembered Caroline's willingness to maintain a channel of communication to Leopold and Stockmar, when those gentlemen – the latter, more than the former – were intent on separating Victoria from Melbourne.

"Whatever," Victoria said tartly. "He has a new mistress, is my guess. He's quite open about his _other_ peccadilloes, but curiously sensitive to Aunt Louise's feelings at present."

"Or to her father's," Melbourne observed. "Although Louis-Philippe's influence is not what it was, and I rather think it is he who depends upon Leopold's good will."

Clear of pedestrian traffic once they passed the arch, Victoria allowed her horse to canter. Melbourne only chuckled, unconcerned. Adagio intuited her will so perfectly that the horse would slow to a walk before they rounded the eastern wall of the palace and if they encountered a slow-moving obstacle, rider and mount would nimbly circumvent.

Victoria's sweet face was flushed with exertion and the recent exhilaration of even modest speed. She had already dismounted with the assistance of a groom who hurriedly pushed a block into place.

"It's too fine a day to go inside yet. Smell? It might be lilacs."

"I doubt that. Your grounds men would not tolerate such a mean shrub on these palace grounds. But magnolia perhaps. Shall we walk?"

"Yes, let's. The children will be taking air I think. We'll call for tea to be set up out-of-doors, like a picnic."

Under her short blue worsted jacket Victoria wore a white blouse buttoned high on her neck. She freed herself of the tight jacket and handed it off to the footman who hurried to her side.

Melbourne looked down at her from his superior height, awash with loving admiration. At twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight, Victoria looked scarcely older than the girl-queen he had once genuflected before. Any changes were for the better, a certain refinement in her profile, an elegant jawline once slightly smudged by lingering remnants of childhood. Her skin was so fine it seemed she had no pores, dewy and fresh, unaided by cosmetics. Her whole appearance spoke of supremely good health, without the faint weariness of a less contented woman. _I did that_ , he told himself. _At the very least, I did that, gave her a safe place from which to launch herself into adulthood. She needed little to become who she was, only confidence in herself as a woman._

"You look so gloomy all of a sudden, Lord M." The sweet contralto voice broke into his thoughts.

"Gloomy? Not I! Nor anyone else, on such a fine day. Look, there's the nursery party ahead."

"Let's duck out of sight. I must first see to Adagio."

The mews held stables-full of royal horseflesh and a cadre of grooms, trainers and stable boys to attend them, but Victoria liked to wipe down and then curry her own mare, speaking all the while in conversational tones. Melbourne had less interest in horses than many of his contemporaries, finding no sport in either hunting or racing as so many others did. He was perfectly amenable to indulging Victoria's affinity for all creatures on four legs, even when he did occasionally have to suggest a moratorium on new acquisitions. Left to themselves, she and the children would see all seven hundred rooms of Buckingham Palace overrun with pets, purebreds as well as abandoned and maltreated strays.

It was not so very easy to push morbid thoughts away. In all his blather, Virchow spoke not a single word of hope, no suggestions of experimental treatments, no potions, no procedures, no protocols. Only, continue as he was doing in regards to diet and exercise if it made him feel better; at the least, it could do no harm. Allow the rotating team of Royal physicians to monitor his pulses and the pressure of the blood flowing through his veins. Only a single new ritual was prescribed, that of having his blood let at the end of the day, to see whether that transient reduction in volume moderated those nagging headaches in any way. Even that, Melbourne sensed, was more to advance Virchow's understanding and allow him to follow the course of his condition, than to succor the patient.

_If I die, then I die_ , was the first flippant response that rose to his lips. He'd had a churlish urge to put the Prussian medical man in his place. But even the impetus of annoyance and vague unease could not force him to utter such fate-defying words.

_How long then?_ There was no clear-cut prognosis to be had. _Once, sixty eight would have seemed extremely advanced age. To a young man, looking that far forward in time was an exercise in futility. The arrogance of youth!_ Melbourne shook his head.

He'd never been a reckless young man, far from it. He'd been innately cautious from the first. Of course he'd drank and gambled and whored – everyone did – but extremes had never been appealing. His sole bout of fisticuffs took place before puberty, an experience he'd decided must not be repeated. Words were his weapons, good humor his armor. But now, when he had everything to live for, a youngster traveled from the Continent only to frighten him with the prospect of his own imminent demise.

_Stuff and nonsense, Melbourne!_ he told himself sharply. _He said nothing of the kind. Only that I might have –_ might _being the key word_ – _a greater propensity toward more apoplectic strokes, and my headaches, even a ruddy complexion and that cursed tendency toward a barrel chest,_ might _indicate a weakness in my blood_. _No, not my blood, the pressure of the blood in my veins_. _Well, if I'd broken my leg once it might indicate I was accident-prone and might be more liable than most to do so again. All I can do is live the life I've been given._ And pray for more time, came the thought, so unfamiliar as to be startling.

Melbourne considered religion a good and proper thing in its place, and even viewed the established Church of England better than the rest. But faith in a divine Being was no part of his makeup. _Hope, but not believe_. Nonetheless, if there was a Higher Power, One Who gave him this late unlooked-for gift of perfect love, then he'd willingly pay lip service to every prayer ever written, if it meant another decade with _her_.

Victoria was standing on her very tiptoes, stretching her arm out to reach Adagio's withers. Fortunately, all her attention was on the task at hand and if he'd been muttering aloud, she was too engrossed in sweet-talking the horse to have heard.

"Allow me," Melbourne said, relieving her of the curry comb. His ministrations earned him a long-lashed, flirtatious blink of approval from the mare and another from her mistress.


	8. Chapter 8

"Her Majesty is in the Music Room, Your Grace."

The carefully articulated syllables, delivered by a footman, betrayed a valiant effort to conceal the speaker's Northern roots. Victoria herself was not such a stickler, but the upper servants waged fierce class warfare amongst themselves. Below stairs was one realm over which she did not imagine she reigned.

She heard the familiar gravelly rumble of her husband's voice and felt a little thrill of anticipation. She had never grown out of that early response and hoped she never would.

"Don't stop on my account, ma'am," Melbourne said merrily. Victoria's hands hovered over the keyboard and quickly found their place again.

When he leaned over her shoulder to turn the page, she sniffed appreciatively at the medley of scents on his coat. Sharp top notes of the coal smoke which permeated City air, mixed with dank river air. A whiff of something deliberately pungent – _cigars_ , she decided, thereby placing him at one or another of the gentlemen's clubs to which he belonged, since Melbourne himself despised burning tobacco. His thick hair, the curls just now laying flat against his head, damp with perspiration, gave off a faint scent which made Victoria think of new puppies. Then, of course, the delicious bergamot-and-lime Cologne water he favored, and underlying it all, the warm, muzzy goodness of flesh-and-blood man.

Victoria played on, humming under her breath in time to the music. Melbourne brushed away the fabric of her skirts and seated himself beside her on the bench. He was not musical, to her eternal regret, and as a result she rarely played. Not that he would discourage her – far from it, he had often complimented the elegant picture she made – but she preferred to spend time with the children, or in activities they could share, when serendipitous scheduling provided a free hour.

The piano they sat at was a splendid instrument. The gilded case was decorated in the French early eighteenth-century style with cherubs and comical scenes involving monkeys playing musical instruments and making mischief. Melbourne had admired it early on, and she remembered his words as she remembered his every utterance from the very beginning of their life together.

"This is a _Mendelssohn_ piece," Victoria murmured, intent on not losing her place. "Do you like it?"

"Mmm," he answered noncommittally. "I very much admire your playing, my love. And I still like those monkeys."

She had been musically trained by experts brought in for that purpose, along with dancing masters and watercolor artists who inspired her with love of their craft. As a young child, those were the skills deemed essential for a girl of her station. Only Lehzen insisted on adding rigorous instruction in mathematics and history and literature. Later, of course, when it became apparent that her uncle would not produce an heir, Eton provosts were brought in to drill her in Constitutional law, Latin, Greek, and the other knowledge essential for a future Queen. _Too little, too late_ , was her despairing opinion. Keenly aware of her own shortcomings, Victoria found one more reason to admire her worldly, wise Prime Minister.

"Ah, but you exemplify duty, and diligence, and have a sharp mind and superb recollection," Melbourne had gallantly reassured her. "The rest are mere facts, which can be acquired."

He must be following along, Victoria realized each time she came to the end of a page and he turned it before she missed a single beat. When she reached the end of the piece at last she allowed herself to lean, just slightly, against the broad shoulder beside her.

"The children are napping," he said, the sound of his voice muffled by her hair. "I looked in on them before coming in search of you."

"What news from town?" Victoria asked in desultory fashion, content in the moment with the sound of their breath in unison.

"Very little. Parliament won't go out until July at the earliest, so that everyone is full of complaints at having to remain in town and endure the heat and stench of summer."

"Surely some can retreat to their country homes for a few days at least?"

"Some," Melbourne agreed. "But few are close enough to London to make it worth the travel."

Brocket Hall, widely accepted as a private Royal residence, was one of those few in close enough proximity to reach in a few short hours. The Royal Family retreated to Melbourne's estate as often as possible, without taking the full Court with them. The ladies and gentlemen of the Household were thus freed to visit their own town homes or country houses on brief holiday without risking their sinecure, an arrangement that satisfied everyone. Victoria and Melbourne entertained seldom enough -the small size of Brocket, a relatively modest Palladian house, limited the number of guests who might be housed - that invitations were rare and extremely coveted.

"Lily is still insisting that she _will_ attend the reception tonight. She demanded a private audience to explain that she _must_ , because _'the dear people'_ will expect her."

Victoria's head lolled against Melbourne's chest, and she turned her face up so he could share her amusement.

The four-year-old Princess Royal had been all dignity, when she entered Victoria's private office. The children had near-total right of access to their parents, a novelty for Victoria and one to which she'd had to adjust. Knowing little of parenting, at least the sort that Melbourne recalled warmly from his own distant childhood, Victoria had determined early on that his wishes would be followed in their home, to make up for their public difference in status. He was no autocrat; far from it, Melbourne's idea of parenting was to lavish the children with love and indulge their every whim. In the case of William, the Prince of Wales, such indulgence served to strengthen and nurture his shy, exacting temperament. With Lily, naturally strong-willed and oblivious to attempted restraint, it had a less than desirable effect.

Over time, Melbourne and Victoria had found their equilibrium as a family, he conceding the necessity of limits and structure and she, the benefit of familial informality and a more openly affectionate manner than she herself had previously known.

"Indeed?" Melbourne's generous, finely-drawn lips tightened in a small smile. "And is she aware of precisely what tonight's reception entails? Or, should I say, _who_?"

Court presentation of debutantes usually took place in May, at the very beginning of the social season. Various events had necessitated a later than usual start, so that the year's crop of young women were to be received on 7th June.

"I think our little _prima donna_ might find her nose out of joint, at a room full of dazzling beauties all primed to outshine her."

"I doubt any of them _could_ outshine Elizabeth," Victoria retorted dryly. "At any rate, I told her that no one, not even a Princess, might curtsy before the Queen and His Grace the Duke of Melbourne without an engraved card. As those are issued by the Lord Chamberlain, and he has given out all he had, it is too late to adjust the lists."

"My dear!" Melbourne said admiringly. "You handled it exceedingly well. Did she pout and kick? Was she removed bodily from your Presence?"

"No, surprisingly not. She maintained her dignity throughout, and merely told me I was dismissed." Victoria leaned even further backward, trusting that Melbourne's arm behind her back would support her. She stroked his jaw with a finger, resisting the urge to find his pulse beneath the fine, soft skin of his neck.

"I have an idea. If we can find a way through the traffic on the Mall…" Melbourne explained how they might give Lily the repetition she longed for, of waving to the crowds of 'dear people' assembled to cheer just for her.

"The carriages will arrive in procession, traveling up the Mall, where onlookers will have gathered in anticipation of the spectacle. We will not overshadow the daughters of the nobility, if only Lily can ride in the last carriage and wave to the crowds."

"Will they recognize her? Why would they wave to an anonymous child?"

"I think our Lily will win the attention of the crowds whether or not they are warned in advance to be on the lookout for a princess."

Victoria sat up, struggling to suppress her annoyance.

"You will ride with her? You must be _inside_ with me. If you're caught up in the traffic in the Mall, this trick will be observed and commented on."

"I thought of that. I think we can ask Billy to squire Lily on her trip up the Mall. He knows the ins and outs of every access point and can bring her safely into the palace unseen. Bodily, if need be."

"She will _not_ enter the anteroom, and will most definitely not be at the supper to follow. She is _four_ , William. People will think we've gone mad, allowing an infant such liberty."

"Permit me to negotiate with her, my little love?" Melbourne prodded Victoria's lip gently, to soften the disapproving line of her mouth.

"I can refuse you nothing. But – oh, nothing. Do as you will, so long as you are where you belong – at my side, on the dais."

Victoria felt suddenly contrite, with a cramping ache that nearly took her breath away. _What if this is the memory Lily holds of her Papa? What if he's not with us when she is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen – a young lady ready to take her place in society?_ It was too cruel an image to contemplate, and she inhaled sharply.

♛

There would be no dinner beforehand, not even for the Household and family. Victoria asked Charlotte Canning to make what plans she preferred for the ladies and gentlemen attendants, explaining that she and Lord Melbourne would take only a light meal in their apartment before resting prior to the start of the presentations. The Duchess of Kent would arrive only shortly before the debutantes themselves were admitted to the antechamber where they would queue before the chamberlain called out names. Victoria had added a third and fourth red velvet and gilt chair to the dais for her mother and uncle.

She asked for baths to be prepared in her own dressing room and her husband's, where water was piped and heated in copper tanks to fill luxuriously deep bathing tubs. Chatsworth had so impressed her with the luxury of their accommodations that these plumbing updates were one of the first improvements Victoria had made. Albert and George Von Wettin had pored over their pages, adding, erasing, revising designs until they'd made the magic of running water a reality.

Now the Palace was undergoing further renovation. The central quadrangle was to be completely enclosed by the addition of a new wing, and the eastern side, toward the Mall, was being revamped under builder's scaffolding which currently obscured its face. Albert's erstwhile private wing, more recently Melbourne's working offices, were undergoing renovation as well, so that even the distant State and family space was constantly invaded by plaster dust and the sound of hammering.

"Shall I wash your hair, ma'am?" Victoria was roused from the pleasant aimlessness of her thoughts, induced by hot scented water up to her neck. She did not use the muslin dress considered proper bathing attire; it was entirely false and unnecessary modesty, under the eyes of only her personal maid and – on some particularly sweet occasions – her own husband.

"Yes, please," she answered lazily, raising her head from the rim of the tub to allow the maid to remove the pins in her hair and loosen the plait. Early East Indian traders had brought back a cleansing substance they called _shampoo_ in the last century. In the heat of the eastern colonies, daily immersion baths were a necessary indulgence for those who could afford it, and one of the customs Miss Eden tantalizingly described in letters to England. Victoria heartily endorsed the practice, liking nothing so much as the sensory pleasure of soaking in a hot tub of water scented and softened by herbs, dried flowers and lanolin. _Well_ , she amended, _almost nothing_. But then, bathing was inextricably intertwined with the pleasures of the marriage bed too, removing any qualms of self-consciousness along with the reminder of less attractive bodily functions.

 _Pleasure could be found in the bath too_. Victoria sternly redirected her thoughts until she could send her maid away.

Her long hair was white with the foam of _shampoo_ as her maid massaged her scalp, and it took several pitchers of water to rinse it completely. Skerrett wrung out as much water as she could and then wrapped her hair in a snowy white bath sheet. Victoria tilted her head and rivulets of bathwater ran from her ear.

"Is that Lord Melbourne's valet I hear?" she asked her dresser.

"Yes, ma'am. He's running a bath for His Grace. I'll just step out through your chamber with these-" Victoria looked at the armload of damp toweling Skerrett held.

"Help me out, and then you can take that down. I'll ring when I want you."

Victoria held her arms out so the girl could pat her backside and legs free of moisture, then took a clean towel and finished the task herself. She settled herself into a freshly laundered dressing gown, appreciating the good clean odor of sunshine and soap.

"I should begin dressing you by six-thirty, ma'am. Even earlier, now that we have to dry your hair."

Victoria laughed at the impertinence. "So noted. As I said, I will ring when I want you."

When she was alone, Victoria listened at the adjoining door until she was relatively confident that she would not embarrass Lord Melbourne's valet. Then she tapped lightly with her knuckles.

Melbourne's arms rested on the sides of his own tub, as long as her own, every inch taken up by his much-longer legs.

"Shall I wash your hair?" Victoria asked, using the words her own maid had so recently employed.

Melbourne preferred to attend to his own bodily needs, accepting his valet's assistance with no more than boots and the donning of his tight, exquisitely tailored coats. He shaved himself and arranged his neck cloths to his own satisfaction, emulating the fastidiousness of his old friend Brummell.

Victoria remained as she was, gazing in wonder at the sight before her eyes. Melbourne was, to her, the epitome of manly beauty. He was a large man, somewhat taller than average, with breadth and girth which made her feel dainty and protected in his embrace. Well-proportioned, he had none of the crudely unattractive, bulging muscles that made some of the more athletic gentlemen of her acquaintance resemble dockside laborers rather than scions of the nobility. Melbourne moved with light-footed grace, danced well and looked fine in the saddle. He had no interest in blood sport and only hunted to escape the field, preferring to loiter with the ladies instead. He had never boxed as had so many of his generation, and disdained the fashion for calisthenics Albert had introduced later. His hobbies entailed only reading and writing, and the more intellectual challenges of cultivating rare specimens in his conservatory.

 _Surely he will live forever!_ Victoria thought, disdaining the obvious impossibility of such a notion. _There can be no fatal fault in such a perfect bodily specimen. And – he's_ mine, _all_ mine!

The last, so fervently uttered in her mind that for an instant Victoria wondered if she'd spoken aloud, came with a rush of passionate emotion, fiercely possessive and affronted by the idea that even God Himself would dare take what was hers. That idea in turn was so extremely sacrilegious that Victoria felt a momentary urge to genuflect like a Papist in horrified apology.

She moved without conscious intent, dropping to her knees beside the tub in an attitude of prayer.

"Lean back and close your eyes," she whispered, pouring scented _shampoo_ into her waiting palm.

♛

They dined sparingly, on cold chicken and salad, each taking only a single glass of white wine with their meal. Victoria was tightly corseted before she sat down, preferring it thus so that she would have that extra incentive to put down her fork. Her gown was ice-blue silk, the close-fitting bodice covered with silver embroidery in a pattern meant to suggest military fashion. Lace made of the same silver thread trimmed a square neckline which elongated her neck. It was a pretty frock and would be rendered even more striking by the addition of a silver watered silk mantle and train. Her diamonds reflected the blue of her gown, sparkling in their web of silver filigree.

Melbourne's waistcoat and cravat were the same ice-blue. Neither of them had ever condoned the collaboration between dresser and valet, but neither had they forbade it. Now more often than not on important occasions, some complimentary bit of Victoria's gown would find it's way into Melbourne's own costume. His tailcoat was black, simple yet cut so close that it accentuated his physique, making the very simplicity a statement in its own right. Melbourne rejected the custom of donning military apparel to which he had no right, as was his prerogative, and the only decorations he would wear were those Victoria had granted him with her own hand. The blue Garter sash was his sole concession to rank obtained only by virtue of marriage.

"Will we attend any of the balls other than Emily's?"

The debutantes would be feted at balls their families vied to make the most elaborate of the Season. All doting mamas sent cards to the Queen; only a few were chosen, out of necessity. Emily, Lady Palmerston, having successfully established her own daughters in society, had been prevailed upon to bring out a niece from her Cowper marriage. As the Queen's sister-in-law, a founding patroness of Almack's and wife of the Foreign Secretary, her young protégé was virtually guaranteed to be the toast of the Season.

"I thought we might look in at one or two," Melbourne said. He didn't pretend not to enjoy the purely social aspects of duty, having long been a highly desired guest in his own right.

"Are you – if you're not too tired," Victoria said, catching herself before she could sound overly solicitous. She wanted nothing more than to wrap him in cotton wool, to pet and cosset and keep him safely preserved from anything which might tax him. And that, she knew without a doubt, would destroy not only the essence of the charming, charismatic man-of-the-world she adored, but dampen his hallmark _joie de vivre_.

"I would like to take to the floor for at least one waltz," he said mildly, meeting her eyes. "And only one, not because I am too frail or weary but because this –" he thumped his thigh with a fist. "- does not promise to cooperate."

His limp was nearly undetectable under normal circumstances. The merest hint of a drop in his foot, however, could cause him to stumble on a polished ballroom floor, just when all eyes were upon him as the Queen's consort.

"But do not deny me the pleasure of watching you on the floor, if you please. Or of mingling with the other doddering old fools on the sidelines."

"You mean, of being flirted with by every _girl_ in the room."

"Yes," Melbourne agreed, laughing easily. "That's the ticket. For all young girls, or at least those with kind hearts, pretend to flirt with gentlemen far too old to take such daring overtures seriously."

Victoria stopped short. The warmth of their easy banter fled all at once. She rose swiftly, before Melbourne could get to his feet, and went around the small card-table that had been laid for supper.

"My darling, I don't _know_ what to say or do or how to be. Should I coddle you and insist you take the greatest care of your health? I would, except I think you would hate that. Should I pretend nothing's amiss? Because it is, or it isn't, and I don't know which. You look so well, and you – well, everything works as it should." Victoria lowered her eyes, shy after such boldness.

She tried without success to sit on his lap. Her wide skirts and the stiffened layers of petticoat underneath prevented such a posture, so she leaned over and wrapped her arms about his neck instead.

"My darling, you should behave naturally. There is no artifice between us. If you want to know what I do – why, I live my life. I follow that diet our very earnest Albert prescribed, simple healthful foods and avoidance of rich dishes, because my digestion has become accustomed. I have no desire to leave you a moment too soon, but I will also not live my life with one foot in the grave, anticipating my own demise. Now –" Melbourne made a gesture with his palm, as if to paddle her backside, and Victoria giggled when that hand found nowhere to land. "I've been waiting for you to say something, and you have. Pray, don't revert to holding back until you find the _right_ thing to say. Speak your mind, my darling, and then let it go. Now – am I shaved closely enough to pass inspection?"

Victoria stroked his cheek, peering at the finely-grained skin. She twirled a few strands of the silver hair which grew against his face.

"You pass, Lord M. Do I?" Their eyes met, gaze locked, communicating without words.

"Shall we watch the carriages come up the Mall?" Melbourne asked, his tone playful.

Their vantage from the east side, in one of those rooms closed off for remodeling, allowed them a clear line of sight down the Mall. There was only one they wanted to see, the last in a line of glossy black laundaus. The low shell of these town carriages was popular amongst the proud parents introducing their daughters to London society, because it provided maximal visibility of the occupants and their clothing.

All those which came bore girls of every size and shape, costumed in white gowns, requisite ostrich feathers in their hair. Townspeople and even those employed by the Palace lined both sides of the long road leading to Buckingham, eager to see the aristocrats in their finery. Rumors persisted that some of these spectators were hired for the occasion, to cheer and salute their patrons. Victoria asked Melbourne the truth of it.

"No different, I suppose, than hiring mourners to augment a meager turnout," he said, shrugging. "Em's girls never needed the support, so far as I know, but there are some – Willoughby's horse-faced daughter, for example –"

"Oh, shush!" Victoria laughed. "That's unkind. Look, there is our Lily!"

As planned, the very last landau contained, rather than a willowy girl on the very cusp of womanhood, a charming vision in miniature. Lily wore white, as befitted a debutante, and even boasted a child-sized plume in her curls. She sat forward, proudly erect, waving her little gloved hand to the crowds and beaming with pleasure. Her very obvious enjoyment enchanted the people and they responded in kind, with loud cries of admiration. Even from their distant balcony, Victoria and Melbourne could hear some of the salutes. _God bless ye, sweetheart_ and _Princess, lookee here!_

Beside her, Cameron's tall black-clad figure conveyed his role as stalwart protector without erasing his natural animation and a propensity to find amusement in nearly every situation. The setting sun seemed to set his long hair, normally brown, ablaze with copper lights. Victoria was struck by something about his appearance beside her daughter and was unable to tear her eyes away from the two of them. A thought occurred to her suddenly, as vivid as though she was foreseeing the future.

 _No!_ she told herself, rejecting the very idea as preposterous. Mentally, she did the calculations. _Billy was – what? Thirty-six? That made him thirty-two years Lily's senior._ Lily idolized the man she and her brother called _their soldier_. Billy was second in her affections only to her own father – _and didn't they say little girls frequently grew up to marry a man in their father's image?_ Billy might bear no physical resemblance to Melbourne, and his attitude of perpetual adolescence might have a certain appeal but did not come close to Lord M's effortless charm but he had been present, literally from the day of Lily's birth, had saved her life even before she came into the world prematurely.

_If not Billy, then whom? Some boy who would have been raised to consider himself the center of the world, expecting a wife who would defer to him? And Lily – would she ever grow up to accept such a conventional marriage, to confine herself to the role everyone expected a princess to play? Good only to seal treaties and bear children, to ornament a foreign court and perpetuate some foreign dynasty? Her father has doted on her too much for that; he would not permit her spirit to be tamed._

"What are you thinking, Victoria? Not angry at me for allowing her to have her fun, I hope?"

Victoria smiled absently, then refocused her attention on the present, dismissing such foolish mental peregrinations.

"Not at all, Lord M. I was only thinking how very happy you make me and how very fortunate our children are to have you as their father. I do wonder if their marriages will be a fraction as happy as ours."

Victoria laid her hand on Melbourne's arm. "Now, we must climb the dais and prepare to receive the curtsies of these lovely young ladies."


	9. Chapter 9

The 10 Hours' Act would pass, of that there was no doubt. The Factory Act in '33 had made a hairline crack in the wall of absolutist authority of mill and mine owners over their workforce, but it had proven nearly impossible to enforce and did not go nearly far enough. Melbourne had been unfortunately quoted out of context, making one of the flippant offhand remarks which long came back to haunt him, concerning the futility of attempting to improve the lot of the poor and educate their offspring. During his first term as premiere, further efforts to improve conditions in the textile mills had no firm foundation of support amongst his own Whig party, and were strenuously opposed by an unlikely coalition of Liberals and arch-conservatives. When Melbourne handed the reins of power to Peel and the Tories, even diehard advocates of labor reform like his nephew-in-law Lord Ashley and Fox Maule had nearly lost hope.

Instead, improbably except to those who took a long view of the pendulum swing of social sentiment, the movement gained momentum thanks to a few well-publicized tragedies and the eloquence of those modern novelists who romanticized the plight of the poor.

Melbourne's objective, in making his rounds on a day he would have far rather spend on his couch, was to smooth over the cracks and fissures between those whose successful sponsorship of the Factories Act threatened to upset the precarious balance of power in Whitehall.

The evening before had not ended until well past four o'clock in the morning. Following the necessary tedium of smiling genially at each young woman who curtsied low before the Queen's dais, of making some amusing or complimentary remark, the Queen and Lord Melbourne hosted a reception and supper. Once again they had to pretend further interest in the bevy of debutantes, their preening Mamas and proud Papas – these latter, to Melbourne's private chagrin, a generation younger than any of his contemporaries – until finally it ended. Then they had gone on to Lord and Lady Palmerston's ball. Emily not begged them to stay as a signal honor to her protégé. Assuming – rightly – that his sister had her eye on the girl, an heiress who was that Season's prime catch, for Melbourne's youngest nephew, he had complied willingly. Victoria was easily persuaded, and even joined in some of the reels and country dances that he himself would not dare attempt.

Only after two o'clock in the morning did the ballroom empty out, and then he persuaded the obliging orchestra to play one final waltz. _That_ was their time to dance for pleasure, when candles guttered, dripping wax, and sleepy servants shifted from foot to foot, waiting to begin cleaning the detritus. Out of the corner of his eye Melbourne saw his gregarious brother-in-law quietly lead Emily onto the floor. The two couples danced, alone on that abandoned floor, until the sky began pinking in the east. Victoria had stepped onto a balcony to refresh herself in the cool night air, and he had come up behind her with her shawl. There, they had watched the day break together, she so tiny in the protection of his embrace.

Each time his mind drifted back to the evening before, Melbourne's expression softened. He would catch himself then and bring his attention back to the task before him, in the narrow chambers and spacious public spaces of Whitehall. When he was not sparring with one or the other disgruntled opponent of the Bill or persuading a victorious advocate to tone down his victorious crowing, he would once more smile when he thought of that sunrise they had shared. 

♛

Melbourne returned to the Palace in time to take late-afternoon sustenance with the children. Anna Russell, wife of that Duke of Bedford who had taken overall charge of what had begun as only Billy Cameron's _secret service_ , had introduced Victoria to the charming custom of having small foods in company. _Tea_ was a foul beverage redolent of rain-soaked rotting leaves, Melbourne thought, but he wholeheartedly embraced the opportunity to deviate from his otherwise-Spartan diet.

Of late, the children had been allowed to participate and looked forward to the ritual of dining on something besides bland nursery food in proximity to their parents. Liam and even Lily were washed and brushed and dressed and brought to the Queen and Lord Melbourne, where they were permitted to converse with whomever might be present. Melbourne had always abhorred the custom of parading children in front of adult guests like show ponies on display, and as much as he enjoyed conversing with them tête-à-tête, he relished watching them shine in such a relaxed setting.

Whichever of the Queen's Household attendants were on duty might be present in her drawing room when "tea" was served, and any of the gentlemen on Melbourne's staff were welcome to join. Victoria generally avoided any scheduling conflict that would disrupt this time with her family, but if a meeting ran overlong and the participants were acceptable, they might be invited to take refreshment as well.

Melbourne went first to his own apartments, to wash off the dirt of the City and change his shirt and neckcloth. He glanced longingly at the plump Chesterfield sofa in his sitting room, then went off to join his family.

They were in the smaller of the drawing rooms, with only a dozen or so present. Melbourne went to Victoria first and grazed the back of her soft little hand with his lips. It would have been an unthinkable faux pas for anyone else, and a liberty in company even for him. He showed her a conspiratorial little grin, and was rewarded by the briefest little moue of that little rosebud mouth.

Normally he would have greeted the highest-ranking lady present next, and had already turned toward his mother-in-law when a black-clad figure caught his attention.

"John!" he said, as soon as he'd bowed to the Duchess of Kent.

John Ponsonby the younger, now the 5th Earl of Bessborough. Melbourne could picture a cherubic, fair-haired toddler in dresses, a talkative little boy in short pants, the son of his late wife's elder brother. He had until recently represented Derby in the Commons, resigning when he succeeded to his late father's title.

Victoria sat at her drawing-desk, working at a sketch of her daughter while she conversed with Lady Caroline Gordon-Lennox. Melbourne went to his son first, seating himself near the boy to watch and listen proudly as Liam spoke to Lord Ponsonby. John would be understanding of a stammer; his own father's career had been dogged by an especially painful stutter. But in such an informal setting Melbourne knew his son was far less likely to battle that tendency to have his words catch in his throat, and Ponsonby, although childless himself, displayed a real knack for talking to children.

Satisfied that Liam did not need him, Melbourne's gaze flickered to his daughter. Lily was on her best behavior, a more frequent occurrence since she discovered the rich reward of a crowd cheering 'just for her.' She was as pretty as her Mama, Melbourne noted with pride, seated beside an arrangement of luxuriant pink blooms that matched the color of her ribbons.

"His Royal Highness has been listening to me reminiscence about my boyhood visits to Brocket Hall," Ponsonby explained. "It was such a wonderfully free and easy place to be. Aunt Caroline was always surrounded by _such_ a lively group of neighborhood children. I quite adored her, as a boy."

"She was happiest in the company of children, I sometimes thought," Melbourne mused. "Of course, she couldn't wait to get you shed of town polish and into the boughs of a tree."

Ponsonby continued in that vein, entertaining Liam with long-ago childish memories of the pony he'd kept in the Brocket stables and the long summer days he and his brothers and sisters had spent there with their father's sister. Since that was the Caro he liked to remember, when she was away from the world and the society that lured her to ruin, happy to dress in groom's apparel and run barefoot with the children who thought of her as their own Pied Piper, Melbourne let the words wash over him, drowsing in the late afternoon warmth of the sun.

"…Father's last letter…" Melbourne awoke with a little start, aware that he had fallen asleep in the Queen's drawing room _again_. Some things never change, he thought ruefully, remembering when a young Victoria would tease him mercilessly for that very thing.

"If you're wondering why I've turned up here, _sans_ invitation, and beg to be received. I did send a brief missive by courier, but…" Ponsonby spread out both hands, palms up. "I presume I have our connection to thank for Her Majesty receiving me."

"I doubt that. She would have done so in your father's name."

The late 4th Earl had been Victoria's Lord Lieutenant to Ireland until his death, and had written her directly and at great length concerning the hardships, food shortages and rampant disease, the Irish people had endured of late.

"That's why I'm here. My father felt most strongly that Her Majesty –" Melbourne interrupted Ponsonby with an involuntary groan. Lily had abandoned her late pretense of princess-like dignity and thrown herself at her father. Melbourne caught her before she could clamber onto his lap like the little monkey she was, and settled her onto the cushion beside him instead. Whatever John had been about to say was lost in the need to temper the little princess's unbridled enthusiasm.

♛

"Go to Ireland? Impossible! I won't have it!"

Melbourne forgot himself, blustering and sputtering at the outrageousness of such a suggestion.

They had retired an indecently short time after dining, both of them certain they would fall asleep as soon as their heads touched the pillow. Now all weariness had fled.

"Can we talk about it tomorrow, Lord M? I am so weary I could scarcely keep my eyes open at dinner."

Victoria, in satin slippers, was even more diminutive than she appeared in heels. She had been washed and undressed and her brown hair streamed down her back.

"I'd prefer to talk about it now, ma'am, unless you can reassure me that you've put such a ridiculous – such a _dangerous_ – thought out of your head."

"Oh, William, I don't want to go into all the reasons now, but I assure you I have thought this over carefully."

"What happened now to make you decide? Your uncle expects us in Belgium – even _Paris_ would be less dangerous, less volatile, than Ireland. The _north_ of Ireland, no less, as you propose."

"A combination of circumstances. Lord Ponsonby wrote me, with nearly his final breath, that I _must_ appear on Irish soil and sooner, rather than later, if I am to strengthen the Royalists in their support of the Crown and remind the people why they are part of a _united_ Kingdom. And preliminary reports from the _Exmouth_ inquest have come out and excerpts have been printed in the papers. _Famine Ships_ , they call them – those overloaded ships taking Irish emigres to North America. And at least one has drawn a parallel to my reign and named me the _Famine Queen_."

Victoria's pretty face was flushed and her blue eyes welled with angry tears. Melbourne knew that he was making a fool's error, or a stripling's, in asserting absolute husbandly prerogative. He had never, for God's sake, forbidden Caro from any of her excesses, with far more right in marriage to do so, and now he stood before a wife who was queen regnant and could not restrain himself.

"I won't have it. That's all, there's no more to be said."

Melbourne turned away, trembling with impotent rage. He knew that he was furious at his own inability to enforce such prohibition, thereby protecting her from inestimable risk. As powerless as he would be to keep her safe, if she were to venture onto those troubled shores. Right here in London, in Hyde Park, on the perimeter of Windsor Castle – she had miraculously survived several assassination attempts. Those took place in a country that loved her, surrounded by cheering crowds, saved by the action of intrepid bystanders. What, then, could she expect on an island only grudgingly tolerant of English rule, wracked by privation, perpetually on the edge of open revolt?

He forced himself to count his breaths, willed his hands, balled into furious fists, to unclench. But he would not turn around, could not face her – not yet. He did not trust himself to rant and rail…or weep.

"William?" came the soft voice, after a lengthy period of silence. "Come to bed, darling. There is nothing that can't be discussed tomorrow, when we've slept on it."

Melbourne was afraid to yield, frightened by the near-ungovernable rage he'd devoted a lifetime to suppressing. Cowed too, by the reality of his complete and utter lack of control over a decision that was purely political and, thus, outside the narrow scope of purely marital and familial equality.

He sighed heavily, knowing he should not prolong the moment. He wanted to hold her safe in the circle of his arms, in their big bed. There, at least, she was safe from all harm.

When he reached for her and drew her close, he held her so tightly he could feel the sharp edges of her clavicle, the knobs of her spine, under his hands.

"Good night, ma'am. Sleep well."

"We'll talk about it in the morning?" Victoria asked, and now her soft voice trembled, uncertain, craving reassurance there was no new gulf between them.

"I'd prefer not to talk about it at all," Melbourne answered gruffly, then kissed the top of her head, the tip of her ear, her cheek and finally her open lips. "You are my everything, Victoria. I love you."

"I love you more, my darling," she whispered, contented now that peace was restored. Her palm splayed open against his chest, fingers hooked in a fold of his nightshirt. He felt an icy foot squirm into the warmth of his legs, then the second join its mate.


	10. Chapter 10

Morning. Discreet tapping on their door broke through the fog of sleep. It would be Victoria's maid, signaling her intent to enter the inner sanctum. Melbourne had not been raised in a laborer's hovel – far from it! – but his own past experience had not prepared him for this intrusive morning ritual. Victoria scarcely recognized servants as distinct entities, having been accustomed since birth to having her most intimate needs met by other hands.

The Queen's dresser came in, features inscrutable and gaze averted. She set down the tray she carried, pushed back the shutters and silently retreated to ready Victoria's daytime toilette.

It must be eight o'clock, Melbourne knew; Victoria rose at the same time every day. She would sip hot water flavored with lemon – since Freddy was born, no more hot sweetened chocolate – and nibble a digestive biscuit before rising. He himself would normally go back to sleep if he could, or lounge abed listening to the sound of her ablutions.

His sleep had been so deep it left him momentarily disoriented, until he remembered and felt his face burn with shame. He had _shouted_ at her, _bellowed_ , _roared_ , so thoroughly lost to all self-restraint that he'd abandoned his habitual control along with the flippant manner and mild sarcasm behind which he hid all strong emotion.

Melbourne could count the number of times he'd lost control on the fingers of one hand – in his life, his entire tumultuous existence. He prized tranquility above all, in himself and his surroundings. To lose control of oneself was to lose control of a life which was at its essence dangerously unpredictable. Caro had, at her worst, egged him on, equating violent passion with a poet's interpretation of love. Caroline, Mrs. Norton, had likewise sought to make him lose control, hoping to inspire a lover's jealousy. That she'd succeeded with George Norton where she'd failed with him, had not led to the gratifying proposal of marriage she'd hoped for.

He forced himself to open his eyes and found himself looking into Victoria's blue ones.

"I'm sor-" Victoria laid her index finger across his lips before he could finish.

"Oh, Lord M, no, you mustn't. I should not have blurted it out the way I did. We've agreed to not talk about public matters in the privacy of this chamber. Of _course_ you reacted as you did; you are concerned for my safety, and I love you all the more for it."

Victoria bounced up with her usual adolescent energy and drew her bare legs up under her backside. Seen thus, he marveled that she didn't look a day over eighteen, fresh-faced and untouched by the years.

"Nonetheless, I expressed myself in an unforgivably heated fashion."

Melbourne got his arms into position and pushed himself up, damning the lamentable lack of dignity he felt at the moment. Victoria's lips twisted into an adorable little grin as she tugged down the hem of his nightshirt.

"Do stop, William. You sound so stiff and formal! Now, shall I see if Baines has your coffee ready?"

Melbourne's valet was so perfectly in tune with Victoria's dresser that he would have known the instant her morning began. He made the coffee himself, from a special store of Cuban beans, employing an imported French glass beaker contraption and vaguely scientific process.

Victoria climbed over Melbourne – deliberately, he thought – rather than rise on her own side of their big bed. Her bottom slide over him to substantial effect, but she was on her feet before he could respond.

"I love you, my darling Lord M – and you are allowed to get angry sometimes."

"Even at the Queen?" Melbourne rumbled, and cleared his throat.

"Especially at me." Victoria, disdaining slippers and wrapper, padded barefoot across the teal-and-crème Aubusson rug.

♛

"The Factories Bill will limit the hours which women and children under 18 can work, to 10 per day. This has been a long time in coming, and past changes have been incremental. We faced fierce opposition from several corners. The textile-mill owners claim it will be the ruin of their business, the Tories bemoan any infringement of the right of a man to manage his business as he sees fit and the Liberals object, with equal vigor, the government restricting the terms on which a man might sell his labour. They extend that right to women and children."

"Not all mill owners, surely. John Fielden, the Member for Oldham, is one who endorsed this Bill. There must be others?" Melbourne approved of Victoria's pleasantly neutral tone.

In this particular matter she took no position either way, but it was necessary that she pretend equal detachment on matters of more personal interest.

"Neither side is entirely satisfied with the result, which means we've struck the right balance. Ashley, Doherty and the labor organizations he represents will claim it's watered down, whilst John Bright and his supporters protest that it represents government overreach at its worst."

Macaulay, Palmerston, Grey and Lord John Russell had voted for the bill and had been called to the Palace for what Melbourne called a temperature check. Robert Peel sat in silence, looking as uncomfortable as he ever had in proximity to the Queen. No longer in office, he retained the loyal support of a significant number of Conservatives. Melbourne, on behalf of the Queen, had enlisted her former premiere to soothe the ruffled feathers of those who predicted the sky would fall, and take with it England's flourishing industrial complex.

"Will it go farther to ensure the education of child workers? I've long found it...contradictory...that we do a much better job of educating the savages in the sub-Continent than we do the children of our own laboring classes."

Education was a subject in which Victoria took a keen interest. The strength and growth of her kingdom, and its expansion across the globe, were her overriding priorities. She was convinced that universal education would further British colonial ambitions, whilst fulfilling a God-given mandate to spread good English values and, above all, the civilizing influence of Christianity. Lord Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, was motivated less by Victoria's altruistic values than by the potential of expansionism to tip the balance of power in their favor. Nonetheless, it gave them a point of agreement to offset their recurrent conflicts.

"Ma'am, as you know, the State has no responsibility for the provision of education, and the working classes themselves have neither the capital nor the income to set up and support schools giving an effective education to their children."

"Lord Russell, the Privy Council has ensured that government money is available to cover up to one-half of the cost of setting up an effective school. Surely it will do much to mollify those mill owners who fear losing their workforce, if these schools can attract and retain young people."

Privately, Melbourne's opinion on the topic had not changed: those who had the talent and desire would always find a way to educate themselves and climb out of the miseries of their low station. For those who lacked such desire, no amount of compulsory attendance in a school would change their essential shortcomings.

Publicly, of course – and this meeting, in this room, must be considered 'public' – he withheld the slightest trace of independent thought, and would bite his tongue rather than allow his natural cynicism to taint Victoria's image.

Melbourne saw Palmerston nod approvingly. Expansion of British interests were his pet passion, and although Melbourne was not entirely confident his brother-in-law shared the Queen's belief regarding the efficacy of educating the lower orders, it suited him to support her on the subject.

"Ma'am, I trust that we've done all we can – all credit to Lord Melbourne – to assuage the more heated opposition. It will go a long way to rebuild consensus, if we move slowly to implement the provisions of this bill."

Only someone as familiar with her lovely face as Melbourne might have detected the hint of impatience in Victoria's expression. She had the temperament of an autocrat, and every instinct prodded her to simply state her goals and expectations. Subduing that tendency had, early on, been one of his priorities in the shaping of a constitutional sovereign.

"Well done, Lord Russell. Successfully guiding this Bill through both Houses will be looked upon as one of the signal achievements of your time in office."

Victoria showed her Prime Minister an enchanting smile, one which had melted colder hearts than Johnny Russell's. She indicated with the merest inclination of her head that the audience was at an end.

"Well? What do you think?" Victoria asked as soon as the gentlemen were shown out by the chamberlain. Melbourne shrugged his shoulders.

"You know what I think? That fortunately it's no longer my job to worry about such things." He paused, seeing Victoria tilt her head in that kittenish way she had. Eyes wide and fixed on his face, lips slightly parted, she looked as she always had, hanging on his every inconsequential word.

"I think that the children of poor and working-class families have worked for centuries before industrialization – helping around the house or assisting in the family’s enterprise when they were able. Children have always performed a variety of jobs to provide income that's critical to the family economy.

I think, perhaps, that if all you've known is a life in the mill or the mines, or for that matter the slums and alleys of Seven Dials, if everyone you know and everyone _they_ know lives the same life, then any do-gooder's attempt to force your child into a classroom and cram book-learning down their throat is only one more flavor of oppression. Nothing these _schools_ promise has any concrete value to you can put a price on. Sending your boys and girls out to pick a few pockets, sell a few pies, to prepare the flax and silk and cotton for looming, to follow the men into the bowels of the earth, is unlikely to change because we limit the hours they can labor.

"You're very eloquent, darling. What do you prescribe for the ills of poverty, if not education and generational betterment?"

They would not be disturbed until Victoria rang the small bell on the table. Whomever was waiting to be received would wait until it pleased the Queen to summon her chamberlain. That knowledge allowed Melbourne to rest his hands at her waist, above the pleated flare of her skirts.

"I'm afraid I don't know, ma'am. I can only quote scripture."

"'The poor you will always have with you.'" Victoria sighed in frustration. "But surely Christ did not mean we should do nothing?"

"Not at all. Government has a role to play, in ensuring a profit for those who create jobs and provide employment. By all means, punish egregious abuse severely. Give alms to those in need, but not so much they are disincentivized from working…" Melbourne's voice trailed off and he threw up his hands.

"As I said, ma'am, I have no solution to recommend and fortunately, it is no longer my duty to provide one. You, however, are as compassionate as you are wise and it is my duty to support you in doing what your duty and conscience decide is right."

"See? That is why I adore you – one _more_ reason I adore you, Lord M. From the beginning, you allowed me to find my own way and only gently steered me off the shoals. Sir John –" she wrinkled her nose at the invocation of her dead nemesis' name. " _Conroy_ would have told me what I must think and what I must do, chapter and verse. With you I am protected yet free to make my own choices according to duty and conscience."

Melbourne understood the delicate turn their conversation had taken. _Oh, she was good, as deft as any politician_ , he thought, and grinned at the comparison.

"That is why I know you will not try to discourage me from going to Ireland, as Queen of a _United_ Kingdom. Oh, my darling William, I do understand that you have concerns for my safety and I can't tell you how – how _cherished_ that makes me feel. We will plan my trip together, taking every precaution, so when you see me off you will know that everything possible has been done."

"When I see you off?" Melbourne asked, furrowing his brows. "Do you mean I will not go with you?"

Victoria sighed and lowered her eyes, so her gazed was fixed on his waistcoat.

"No. I do not pretend there is _no_ danger. Ireland has been through much, and tempers run high in some quarters. The Exmouth is only one more tragedy those poor people have had to endure. Is it any wonder that talk of rebellion, of 'casting off the yoke of a distant and uncaring Crown', is gaining a foothold?"

Victoria absently smoothed the fabric of her gown, head bent as she gathered her words.

"I think I will be safe – those attacks on my person have all been launched by single deranged individuals, with no organized conspirators to be found – but of course I cannot be certain. You must remain here with the children, out of an abundance of caution. Because if something _does_ happen to me, you must stand as Regent for Liam until he comes of age."

Melbourne felt a chill at the calm pragmatism in Victoria's voice.

"You know he cannot travel any great distance with us. The heir to the Throne never goes abroad in the company of the sovereign. A ship could go down in the Channel – a train wreck, even. Not a fortnight past, five people were killed and a dozen more injured when that bridge collapsed and the railroad carriage fell into the River Dee."

Now she was cajoling, her voice dulcet and sweet. She toyed with the button on his waistcoat, standing so close he could see the pulse in her throat.

"It's what you get for marrying me, William. Surely you understand that. This is about so much more than you and I. If I were not who I am, _what_ I am, I would live happily with you at Brocket Hall. We would come to London for the Season and I would give at-homes, plan house parties and entertain. We would visit with your brother and sister and entertain your nieces and nephews. We could travel – oh! how I'd love to visit Boston and New York, in America!

But that is no more than a dream. I was born to this role, anointed by God, and He sent you to be my strength and support."

Victoria stopped speaking as suddenly as she'd started. Melbourne watched the pink rise in her cheeks.

"I do go on, don't I?" she giggled breathlessly, leaning her forehead on his chest.

"You're a wonder, Mrs. Melbourne!" Melbourne said, his own voice cracking with emotion. "My little love, my precious girl, my splendid _Gloriana! Y_ ou are who you are and I'd have you be nothing less."

Victoria lifted his hand, clutching it tightly. Then she raised it to her lips, kissing each knuckle.

"I could not be what I am, without you at my side. Now – shall we bring in Lord Bessborough?"

Melbourne looked on his former nephew-by-marriage with considerably less fondness than he had the night before. The 5th Earl was, in his turn, more formal than familial in his polished greeting.

Victoria had refreshments brought in, and chose a seat away from her broad working desk. She led a brief exchange of small talk, asking about his trip and the circumstances of his newly-inherited estates.

"Please, Lord Bessborough, repeat if you would what you told me yesterday, so that my husband might hear and question you directly."

John Ponsonby summarized the well-known facts surrounding the loss of the emigrant ship Exmouth Castle on 28th April, 1847. 241 Irish citizens had boarded in Londonderry, their destination a new life in Canada. These intrepid souls had survived famine, disease and unrest in their homeland and against all odds scraped together enough for their passage to North America, only to die off the coast near Islay.

Melbourne could not entirely suppress a shudder, remembering the violence of the storm that had nearly sunk him the night he returned to attend Caro on her deathbed. Gale force winds, sudden squalls and torrential rainfall had threatened to overturn his ship then, and he still had occasional nightmares of that ill-omened journey.

The crew of the Exmouth had battled the forces of nature for two days and nights. Battered and scarcely sea-worthy by the end, when the captain saw lights in the distance he mistook them for safe harbor and turned his broken ship toward what he thought was the Island of Tory. Too late he realized his fatal error and made a final desperate attempt to avoid disaster. At half-past twelve on Wednesday morning the ship was dashed against the rocks, broken beyond all saving. The emigrants perished in their berths as the rocks rapidly thumped the bottom out of the vessel, Ponsonby concluded.

"My father died a month later, haunted until his last breath by the suffering those people endured. You understand, ma'am, to the poor of Ireland, North America has been their hope of salvation. Every one of them knows someone, cousin of a friend, friend of a cousin, who made their way to Canada or New York and found their fortune there. 241 dead, so very many of them children and babes in arms, represent the futility of all hope.

But long before that, Father, as your representative on that benighted isle, worked for Catholic equality and a measure of self-rule. As you did your part, sir –" Ponsonby, as if just remembering Melbourne's own tenure as Chief Secretary for Ireland, nominally subordinate to the Lord Lieutenant but in fact the chief government minister in Dublin Castle – "to persuade the opposition and reassure the loyalists. To that end, ma'am, Father felt most strongly that you need to step foot on Irish soil. Scotland has had their Royal visit. Now it must be the turn of the Irish. They need to see their queen."

Melbourne became aware that his rancor must be visible. He forced his features to relax and settle themselves into their customary expression of benign amusement.

He could not disagree with a single word, a solitary syllable, of Ponsonby's forcefully persuasive speech. He had not, as Chief Secretary, dared suggest any such thing, but only because the Georges Father and Son were near-universally despised and support for the monarchy had reached a perilously low ebb. Victoria was well-regarded by the aristocracy, respected by the bourgeois and regarded with equal parts awe and affection by the working class. _She_ , unlike her uncles and grandfather, could accomplish much simply by dining at Dublin Castle, visiting a few churches and dedicating, as Ponsonby suggested, a monument to the _Exmouth_ victims.

No, Melbourne thought viciously, I cannot disagree, but I don't have to bloody well like it. The occasion itself – a monument to 241 lost lives – was proof that simply crossing could be treacherous. Once on Irish soil, any number of rabble-rousing separatists could inspire with their fiery rhetoric the same sort of deranged assassin who more than once had tried to murder his wife.

♛

"But I don't _want_ to go to the Stanhope Ball," Victoria said, miming Lily's furious rejection of any plan she had not herself devised. She wore her hair piled at the back of her head, with long curls framing her face. Chandelier diamond earrings moved, reflecting the light, when she shook her head from side to side.

"Then I will put you over my knee and paddle your backside, young lady," Melbourne teased, although he himself dreaded the outing.

Victoria's gown was extremely becoming. He admired the smooth bare skin of her shoulders, and the elegant neck which rose, stem-like, above a necklace of diamonds the size of pigeon-eggs. He briefly entertained an image of Victoria in her jewels, _sans_ gown, and decided that when they returned he would whisper the suggestion in her ear. _Better yet, while we stand in the receiving line beside our hostess, greeting a never-ending line of guests._ The notion made him grin in anticipation.

"What are you thinking of, William? Something naughty?" Victoria teased.

"I'll tell you later – perhaps when we arrive at the ball. It will help to pass the time nicely, I think."

* * *

If you'd like to read more about the sinking of the Exmouth, there are many [accounts online](https://www.islayinfo.com/exmouth-islay-tragedy.html). The image at the beginning of this chapter is from the May 8, 1847 edition of the Illustrated London News.


	11. Chapter 11

The sight of Victoria, heavily bejeweled –a long rope of South Sea pearls joined the diamonds around her throat and her forearms were heavy with glittering bracelets of every description – and wearing only silk stockings and high-heeled court shoes, was one Melbourne thought at the time he would not soon forget. But first came her performance in the Stanhope ballroom, reckoned by all a spectacular success.

Mayfair by night, with the new gas lamps installed, was a dazzling vision. Part of its success as an upper-class development was its proximity to the Court of St James. The parks, and the well-designed layout guaranteed no shortage of old family names attached to a select Mayfair address. Stables, coach houses and servants' accommodation being established along the mews running parallel to the streets so that from the front visitors saw only elegant façades.

The 4th Earl Stanhope was widowed, and as eccentric as his more notorious sister. He cut no dashing figure, looking rather disheveled in a tailcoat so worn the black fabric was rusty in places. He greeted the Queen with an air of distraction, as though he couldn't quite remember where they had met; mistook Melbourne for another and ambled off in search of a drink. The eldest Stanhope heir, Viscount Mahon, did the honors of the house but Melbourne was hardly surprised when Willie Dalmeny hurried up and claimed Victoria's attention.

"Your Majesty," she said, dipping low into a graceful curtsy. Wilhelmina Stanhope had once been called the most beautiful girl in England, and had been favorably compared to the little Queen she served. She had a sloe-eyed, black-haired beauty that could not fail to dazzle, and the effortless charm of society's darling. She was also, to her credit, intelligent, well-read and well-traveled.

Victoria had heartily despised the coterie of same-aged young women she had been obliged to accept as her companions. They were not sérieuse, she had complained to Melbourne. They were frivolous, flirtatious and interested only in their gowns and the marriage proposals they received. Worse, they had doubtful morals. This last complaint had amused Melbourne when he heard it, but even his uniquely privileged relationship with Victoria had not permitted him to laugh outright so instead he had shown her an expression so solemn and pious that it was she who had bubbled over with laughter.

If any of Victoria's old insecurity lingered, it was not apparent that night as she walked beside her hostess. She was animated and gay, poised and self-confident, quick with the sparkling repartee which had once alluded her. She flirted with her fan, laughed at bon mots, then deftly shifted her attention to another as Melbourne sipped champagne and watched from the sidelines.

"The Queen has never been in better looks _._ "

"Who would've thought she would turn out so well?"

_"Pensez-vous qu'elle a pris un amant_?" 

"Not at all," came the immediate reply. "Our little Queen is besotted with her husband. As much as he is with her, more's the pity."

The words gratified him, but like those critical observers Melbourne wondered at the new polish and sparkle which Victoria seemed to emanate. This was the girl, woman now, whom he had always been privileged to know. Very young and unsure, with little experience outside the cloistered walls of Kensington and none in society at large, she had been stiffly formal in company, reluctant to unbend and reveal her own lack of experience. As a result she had been judged harshly, both intellect and sophistication found lacking. He had known the real Victoria from the very beginning, but they – the upper ten thousand, English aristocracy already prone to look down on their royal House – had dismissed the new queen as boring and gauche, yet another Hanoverian best kept out of sight.

Seeing Victoria so at ease in the sort of setting she had once dreaded, amongst the society where he himself felt entirely at home, Melbourne felt pride just slightly tinged with faint misgiving.

"Don't look so glum, dear one," Emily said at his shoulder. Melbourne smiled down at his sister. She was still a handsome woman at sixty, and her impeccable sense of style was the envy of women half her age.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Melbourne held up a finger to signal one of the footmen and exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

"She's a credit to your tutelage, William. Everyone say so."

"She's a credit to herself, Em. I did nothing but let her be. There were already too many who sought to control her."

"One would never know to see her, that she was raised by that peculiar woman. Or, for that matter, that she springs from the same line as that crude old man."

"Mother was not so particular, dear sister. She derived much of our standing from her _liaison_ with Prince George."

Emily shrugged her shoulders in an elegant – and eloquent – gesture.

"Be that as it may. Learn to take a compliment. Or is something else on your mind? Ireland, perhaps?"

"Henry's told you," Melbourne stated flatly.

"I was somewhat surprised, to be honest. Not that she'd be willing to go, if requested – the girl knows her duty, to be sure – but that she was so eager. As Henry tells it, she leapt at the chance."

He parsed his sister's tone for innuendo.

"She is very eager to do something of real value, and has a great deal of compassion for her suffering subjects."

"Remember that benighted interlude, when I fled the country and Cowper pursued me to the Continent? With Henry in tow, no less? I refused to return. Looking back, I think it was less infatuation than intoxication with my own freedom."

Melbourne frowned, disliking the comparison.

"I daresay Victoria is not _fleeing_. She is traveling in state, on a State visit. She requires me to stay behind as Regent."

Melbourne was embarrassed by the petulance in his tone, then grew annoyed when Emily offered no response. He stole a glance at her face and saw a smug, all-knowing expression.

"Who else could she appoint on short notice? Surely you don't think Parliament or Council would accept you and Henry? Or Frederick? There is a limit to the reach of the Lambs, and I fear we have already exceeded it."

"A Regency is only a paper contingency, William. If it ever, God forbid, became necessary to invoke it, surely you know that the boy's Coburg relations would beat a path to your door. I doubt that even your friends in Parliament could overlook the fact that Liam is _Albert's_ son by law." Emily arched her brows delicately.

"And no, I do not mean to imply she's _fleeing_. Victoria is stretching her wings and reaching for a taste of independence. Perhaps it would behoove you to do the same."

"I have never sought to curb her independence, or even allow her to become overly dependent on me. Just the opposite, in fact."

"You are not a woman, and can't know what I am trying to say. Society gives women no opportunity to accomplish anything on our own. We have to find our own means of making a mark, and by necessity it has to be done obliquely. I felt it, and I do not doubt that Victoria feels it ever more strongly. She's been cossetted and protected and kept in a golden cage. She told me once that she felt like a strange bird, brought out to sing and then locked away. Perhaps this little trip feels like a chance to experience just a taste of freedom and independence."

Emily's words stung Melbourne to quick retort.

"I have never tried to confine Victoria, and certainly never to usurp her. Some – even Albert, for all I learned to like the boy – would have attempted to dominate her in private and overshadow her in public life. I was never even tempted. I had no ambition to rule behind the throne. I –"

"William, William, William." Emily's low chuckle was infuriating. "Is it so hard for a man to understand, that it isn't about you and what you've done or didn't do? It's about what _she_ can do for herself this time. You have to allow her to spread her wings and fly."

♛

"William. Will. Willie. _Mine_ ," Victoria had cooed in the darkness, soft and yielding in his arms, redolent of their lovemaking.

"I must take you out into London society more often, my girl, if this is the result," he teased. Head pillowed on arms crossed behind his head, languid and utterly at peace, Melbourne's earlier moodiness faded.

Melbourne meant to sound playful, to maintain their light-hearted mood, but his voice cracked with emotion instead. He tightened his arm around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair. _Could he really stand by and watch her steam off to Ireland? Entrust her to safety to others and –_ he had gulped back the unworthy notion – _and no longer need him as she once had?_

♛

Victoria spent the next few days in a frenzy of activity. Henry Labouchere and James Loftus, Marquess of Ely; Viscount Cameron and Charles Bingham. Auckland himself, with what appeared to be half the flag staff of the Admiralty in tow.

"I want to see a series of pamphlets printed in New York, lectures delivered by a Roman Catholic Bishop in that city which assert that we are to blame for the famine." This last demand laid upon the unofficial envoy from the Vatican. As the Holy See had been eager to establish formal diplomatic relations since the Catholic Emancipation Act removed all legal barriers, the overeager little Roman promised to do all he could in the time allotted him.

Melbourne was not invited to participate in any of the planning, but each time he attempted to excuse himself Victoria would protest.

"I'm sorry, darling. Let me just finish…"

"If you have no need of me, ma'am -?"

"If you had rather be elsewhere, pray don't let me detain you," Victoria said absently, albeit with a certain sharpness in her voice.

Melbourne bit back a ready retort and turned to leave.

"William…wait…"

She stood and came around her desk, reaching for his hand.

"You do understand why it's important I go? You are not angry with me?"

Melbourne sighed heavily, and he felt his expression soften.

"I am not angry with you. I have no part to play in the planning, so if you don't need my services I don't see why I am required to attend you."

He felt the intensity of Victoria's gaze, probing his own.

" _Tutto quello che so dell'amore che ho imparato da te_ ," she said gravely, then raised her hand to his face. " _Mi manterrai nei tuoi pensieri. Il mio cuore è tuo_."

" _Mon coeur_ ," he said, answering her Italian with French. The endearment nearly caught in his throat.

_Yes, she loves me_ , he told himself. _But does she need me? And who will I be, if she does not?_ Love and intimacy was not enough to fill a life and make it worth living. One needed purpose and a job to do, and at the end a sense of accomplishment. It was a disturbing idea, that he could have all of this, a woman he loved who loved him in return, three healthy children in the nursery, and yet feel rudderless and unfulfilled.

And it hurt to acknowledge that they would not always be as they once were, teacher and pupil, she the Plato to his Socrates.

♛

When the convoy of vehicles arrived in the Mews it took some time to determine who could take delivery of the freight they carried, and even longer to decide which palace department would most appropriately be in charge thereafter. When word finally reached Melbourne by circuitous means, the cargo had sat in the sun, under canvas covering, for hours. His mind went blank momentarily; it seemed eons ago, since he'd set the plan in motion. With everything happening all around them, it seemed like a silly gesture and he wished fervently they would just go away. Knowing it was a futile hope, he resignedly trudged down the backstairs with Liam at his side.

Lilacs. Entire branches in full bloom. White and pink and purple. Lilacs from Brocket Hall and more, from every garden in the neighborhood. Lilacs transported in farm wagons and stately old coaches.

Worktables were hastily assembled by laying boards over barrels and a few sawhorses and a team gradually expanded until scullery maids and laundresses, grooms and the Queen's dresser, an undercook and several butlers were chattering as they worked. Trays of sandwiches were sent down with iced lemonade and beer. Liam beamed with delight at the novelty of eating with dirt-covered hands, seated on an old wooden cart.

Priceless chinoiserie vases, brass urns and fine crystal held the more artistic arrangements, but type of container capable of holding water was filled with stems. Larger intact branches were carried by hand to the long private balcony outside the family apartments, and displayed in the stone planters as though they'd grown there all along.

Inside, at the end of the day, every corner of the Queen's private apartments held lilacs, some tastefully arranged with more refined flowers and foliage, others in simple profusion. Melbourne surveyed the results.

"Well, my boy? What do you think?" Liam's face was smudged with dust and grime, and his nails caked with dirt. He beamed at his father.

Victoria's reaction was all he had once hoped. Her nostrils flared, drinking in the country fragrance she loved. She buried her face in delicate white petals. As she toured her apartments, admiring each display, Melbourne followed behind, feeling vaguely foolish.

Even the time spent with his son, unplanned, usually a source of quiet pleasure, only added to the sense of… _something_ that rankled. He could not forget his sister's grim reminder, not meant as a taunt but simple statement of fact. _I doubt that even your friends in Parliament could overlook the fact that Liam is Albert's son by law._

"I'm pleased, if you like them," Melbourne said, in answer to Victoria's effusive thanks. "You will miss lilac season in Hertfordshire, and we won't travel to Melbourne Hall this spring."

He smiled tenderly down at her upturned face, lightly stroking her cheek.

"We're – everything is good then, Lord M?" Just at that moment, he saw the old Victoria, in her sweet hesitancy and the eager yearning in her expression.

"Of course it is, ma'am," he responded in kind, using the honorific.

"Good. I need it to be, William. I hate when I sense that we might be at odds, or that something is troubling you. You know I can do nothing, without you at my side?"

"Now _that,_ madame, I cannot quite believe. You are strong and independent, _Gloriana_ and can do as well without me as with." Melbourne hoped she did not detect the bitterness he felt. It was not _her_ fault that he was struggling, and he was instantly remorseful when those big blue eyes filled with tears. When she spoke, her voice was hushed and solemn.

"All I know of love is you. Without you, I am not whole and nothing else matters." Sweet words, spoken from her heart. Melbourne pretended to believe them.


	12. Chapter 12

_Mama did not seem surprised. She only showed me her insufferable little smile, meant to make me feel like an ignorant child again._

_"Of course, your husband needs to feel like a man. Does this shock you? You must pretend to need the benefit of his superior understanding, if you want to retain his affections."_

_I do not pretend with William, I wanted to say. He does not expect me to act like a ninny, incapable of doing my duty unaided. It would only give her more ammunition, more reason to patronize me. It is true that I have known only one man, while she married twice and then led on that dreadful John Conroy by pretending to require his protection and guidance._

_While Mama went on to elucidate all the ways in which a woman bent on the task can manipulate a gentleman's affections, I recalled how she had acted in my youth. I thought I hated her for it, the woman she became whenever a man entered into her presence. Mama, quite as capable and with twice the ambition as even Uncle Leopold, became a different creature entirely. With Sir John she simpered and fawned and flirted. It was quite unbearable to watch, so much so that I'd once pledged to Lehzen that I would never marry._

_"A lady attracts a gentleman's notice first by her appearance and her wit and conversation. But make no mistake, Drina, that does not last. Keeping a gentleman's affection is all about how you make him feel about himself. You must persuade him that he is a superior being. Flatter and defer to his greater wisdom."_

_Lord M did not want that. He was the most patient of teachers, but I sensed early on that it was my youth and inexperience holding him back. Knowing what I do of his romantic past, he had never been attracted to very young women. Caro in her prime and those who came after had all been bold, independent women, not girls. Emily Eden traveled India and wrote her books, and Caroline Norton – why, the whole world knows of her accomplishments. Even those with whom he claimed only friendship were accomplished in their own right. Lady Holland's salons were where men such as Lord Byron and Mr. Disraeli sprang into prominence._

_So no, Mama, Lord M does not yearn for a silly vapid girl, or that sad caricature of one you show him._

_And yet – and yet, something is amiss. I can tell it; I can always tell. Last night for the first time – oh! I blush to write it – he pushed me away. Not harshly, of course; his eyes were quite kind, and he held me and stroked my hair. But when I tried to – well, to bring us close as husband and wife, he shook his head quite firmly. It was not merely a tease as I first thought, but unequivocal declination. How foolish I felt then! I burned with humiliation, my vanity stung, and could not look at him face so buried my face in his shoulder instead._ That _, Mama, is what I get for letting your silly advice persuade me against my own inclination._

_William is still William, my darling Lord M. He is unfailingly gentle and kind, whimsical and profound in turn, so perhaps the fault lies with me. Or perhaps I must take him at his word, that nothing is wrong. Nothing is the matter, he reassures me with that little tight smile, except a reasonable concern for my safety and the success of my mission. He says all the right things at just the right time, and yet I know his heart is not in it._

_My advisers come and go, and our itinerary is drafted. I must give a brief address at landing, and a lengthier one later that same day in Dublin. Lord Bessborough wrote volumes during his time there, and Lord Clarendon will be with me throughout, but who better to advise me of the pitfalls in Dublin, or those people and places to which its inhabitants attach sentimental significance, than William? He was popular there, during his time in Dublin Castle, and even those most liable to criticize his work wrote that our Irish subjects found him a refreshing change from his predecessors._

_In all this and more I rely upon him to guide and advise me. I do not speak as a wife, but as a sovereign when I say that no king in history has been better or more loyally served than I, by my Lord the Duke of Melbourne. Alas, he seems to doubt his own value to the Crown and hangs back, deferring to Clarendon and the rest._

_I speak as a wife when I say, my darling William, you are all I know of love. You told me once that the world is so much larger than this corner you and I inhabit, and it would be good for me to look beyond the horizon. How wise you were, my darling, to know that someday I should grow up and be ready to look outward! Beloved, your love provides the foundation upon which I stand to face that great world beyond._

Victoria read over what she had written, nibbling at the end of her pen. Then she sighed and closed her diary, turning the little gold key in the lock. It would be better, she thought, to scratch out those words, to rip out the offending pages. But unlike her official journals, these diaries helped her to make sense of her thoughts and even, to look back in time from some distant future. If they were worth writing at all, then she must be free to empty her mind and heart unhindered by self-censorship.

Her lower back ached, the tightness there reminiscent of pregnancy. She had been seated far too much of late, the days filled with a succession of meetings. Clarendon, Grey and a host of others all put forth place names and titles, advocating for their particular friends and pet projects. She would not spend more than five days absent, and in that time must visit Cork, Dublin and Ulster.

Victoria stretched to loosen tight muscles and tilted her head first one way and the other. She was weary but not tired, certainly not ready to retire. Her own desk was covered with evidence of her work; William's, adjacent, was conspicuously bare. The ceaseless demands on her time and attention in preparation for the day she would depart meant that they saw relatively little of one another. Victoria knew that she could summon him with a word, but refrained from tact and sensitivity to his feelings. To call him to attend her without concrete purpose would be an abuse of her station. Victoria's feelings recoiled at the very thought of requiring William Lamb, wise senior statesman in his own right, worthy of the utmost respect from sovereign _and_ wife, to stand about like an ornamental courtier. So she left him to his own devices by day, shedding her reluctance along with her clothing at day's end. That time was their own, precious, and then she could let her need of him show.

Victoria looked in on her ladies in the drawing room and waved off their prompt offers of entertainment. She rang the bell for her dresser and, while she waited for the woman to arrive, went through to Melbourne's adjoining suite.

His bed was made up but mussed, the pillows bunched up where his head had lain. He rarely used it at night, preferring to share her own bedchamber, but sometimes withdrew for a nap at midafternoon. Victoria picked up the pillow and brought it to her nose, inhaling the scent of his hair. Even such a little thing gave her a melting sensation and her eyes filled with tears from the surge of emotion. All the early exhilaration she'd felt at the prospect of her first State visit faded. The impending reality of spending a full week away from Melbourne made her nauseous and weak at the knees

Her dresser helped her out of gown and corset, and knelt to untie the ribbons which held up her stockings. Rather than the negligee Skerrett presented, Victoria called for a tea gown. She had had several made for weekends in the country, and she rarely wore anything else at Brocket Hall. The light, unstructured design made them entirely unsuitable to be worn in company, but at home in the heat of summer nothing was more comfortable.

She took a light cashmere shawl and stepped out through double French doors onto the terrace.

Melbourne sat with his back to her, holding the bowl of his brandy snifter in both hands. Victoria laid her hands on his shoulders and he tipped his head back against her bosom.

"In Singapore they call this the Blue Hour, or so I'm told. In the south of France painters call it the Golden Hour."

The sound of that familiar gravelly voice, so languid with its faint drawl, was the music of Heaven to Victoria. She giggled, embarrassed by such an extravagant comparison.

"Sit with me and watch the dying of the day?"

Victoria wrinkled her nose, disliking the metaphor, but did as she was bid.

"Lord Clarendon brought the final itinerary today," she said hesitantly. "I would appreciate it very much, if you would go over it with me."

Melbourne grunted, lowering the feet he'd had propped on a chair and straightening his slouch. He held out his hand.

"You don't have to look at it now." But he'd seen the portfolio under her arm.

He turned the pages, reading in silence while Victoria watched him.

"The Dolphin Hotel…" his voice was pregnant with meaning.

"You know it?"

"I do. Caro hid herself away there for a fortnight, when news of the poet's engagement to my cousin reached her. And later, when I took up my post in Dublin - well, suffice it to say, the Dolphin provided privacy sorely lacking in my official residence."

Victoria felt a pang, suddenly wishing they might go there together, to exorcise his memories, good and bad. Rather than give in to her own jealousy, she forged ahead.

"Do you think it's proper that I stay there for a night?"

"Oh yes, it's one of the finest old hotels in the country."

"Lord Clarendon tells me the same."

"Can they put up your entire entourage at such short notice? Many of our countrymen rest there _en_ _route_ to their Irish estates."

"Not all," Victoria conceded. "Lady Canning and Lady Portman, at least one of my secretaries – and Billy, of course, with whomever he assigns to my security detail. The others will have accommodations nearby."

Melbourne read on, making occasional comments.

"Is there anyone I should see, who has not been scheduled? Or anyone I shouldn't see, who has?"

"The administration itself has always been a tangle of corruption and inefficiency. Each new governor imagines he can change it. If Clarendon thinks you need to meet with these –" Melbourne tapped his forefinger against the page. "-then I would not dispute. O'Connell will be an exhausting prospect, but I think he will not behave badly."

"When you were there you made a point of receiving everyone, I think," Victoria said, knowing full well he had. She had studied, exhaustively, all the records of his time in Dublin, caring little what anyone else before or since had done.

"The great means by which the Orange gentry have drawn over everyone who has gone there,” he said, “was by assuming that their set was the only one worth associating with, quite the first company. That is one of the strongest, if not the very strongest passions of the human mind. You cannot go wrong, ma'am, by insisting that every dinner includes mixed company. You are going there to win over your Irish subjects, not pander to those Englishmen in temporary residence."

They talked, or rather Melbourne talked and Victoria listened, until the air grew chill under a black velvet sky. When she interrupted to ask a question, he would answer her at length and as she always had, Victoria committed everything he said to memory. Melbourne had thrown himself into studying the Irish problem during his tenure there, and as with most other things, she implicitly trusted in his ability to see both sides of an issue.

"You are shivering, my love," he said suddenly, interrupting his own train of thought. "It is growing cold, and I am a brute for not taking you in sooner."

"I hadn't even noticed, Lord M. You've helped me greatly by providing context for what I will see and hear, and what I'm expected to say. I need to strike just the right not."

"I don't need to remind you, to promise nothing. But in Ireland it's damned hard to avoid even the appearance of promising. They'll grasp at anything and believe what they want, so desperate are they for some ray of hope."

Melbourne stood so suddenly he towered over her. Victoria looked up at his solid bulk. When she stood the top of her head scarcely reached his shoulders. He tenderly arranged her shawl and the back of his hand just grazed her breast where her nipple was quite firm from the cold.

"William, you _do_ understand why I am going alone? I would never entertain the idea, except Clarendon and Bessborough are adamant that it must not appear to be a _pleasure_ trip."

"As it would if you traveled with your husband." Victoria peered him at his face, wondering whether his flat dry tone held some note of – what? Skepticism?

"I suppose. Mr. Dickens' writing has made it quite the thing to _tour_ the slums as though visiting a museum or zoo. It would be like that, if we went _en famille_ to Ireland in the midst of their suffering."

"I suppose there's some merit in that line of thinking," Melbourne conceded. When he offered her his arm, Victoria, rather than decorously laying her hand on it, ducked underneath so she was sheltered in his embrace. _It's long after dark and there is no one about to see_ , she told herself.

"And of course, we need you _here_ , out of an abundance of caution, for the sake of a potential Regency. Just think, if we were shipwrecked or –"

Victoria saw him wince.

"I doubt Parliament and the Council would ever accept me as Regent."

"If you thought it right, I have no doubt you'd fight for it. But you are also guardian of our children, and whether or not my ship flounders on some rock by night, you have a king in the making who needs you."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, across the flagstones of the terrace and into the French doors leading to her – their – private apartment.

"Have you a busy schedule, while I am gone?" Victoria asked, when her back was turned so he could undo the buttons on the back of her simple gown.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. The Commissions I sit on, the Committees I lead." As he spoke, Melbourne loosened his neck cloth and began disrobing without the aid of his valet.

"All of it a waste of time. There's one I'd hoped to avoid, but Henry Cole has written to implore me to attend. His Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce. I'd forgotten it, or tried to, but he wants me to take a more prominent role in that blasted exhibition he's planning."

He sauntered into his dressing room.

"Don't be so busy that you don't have time for the children," Victoria called, raising her voice so he could hear through the half-closed door. "Have you ever thought to taking Liam with you on more of your engagements? When they began educating me, it was provosts from Eton bringing law books and drilling me on facts. But there's so very much more to wearing a Crown, than treaties and High Court decisions. He should learn how to _be_ , with people, how to reconcile conflicts and…well, all those things you excel at, which can't be taught."

Victoria reached the doorway and leaned against the jam, watching. Melbourne stood in only his trousers, pulling his nightshirt over his head. Once, she would not have entertained the idea of undressing without the help of her maid. But the cozy intimacy of their bedtime rituals were best uninterrupted by the presence of others.

"This is our last night together, before I set sail," Victoria said, her voice low. "Oh, my darling, how I will miss you! Your _Queen_ will miss her most trusted adviser, and your _wife…_ "

So he couldn't see the tears welling up and threatening to spill down her cheeks, Victoria rushed forward and buried her face in the soft linen of his nightshirt.


	13. Chapter 13

Melbourne was roused from a restless sleep by tapping on the outer door. He had slept only fitfully, and ached in every joint. _It would be her maid, come as she'd been bid at this ungodly hour._ He growled some inarticulate response, sufficient to stop the infernal noise, and turned with some difficulty.

Victoria, accustomed to waking at eight o'clock, had only snuffled and burrowed further under the covers, All Melbourne could see of her was tangled hair and a bare shoulder where her nightdress had slipped down.

Neither of them had gotten the sleep they needed, and precious little of the intimacy they both wanted to mark the eve of her departure. Or rather, Melbourne thought, not _precisely_ the sort of intimacy he'd had in mind. Remembering, his lips twisted into a tender smile.

No sooner had he taken her into his arms, cupped a breast in his hand, than they'd been interrupted by an ethereal white figure flitting through the darkness like a tiny ghost.

The State bed was more than twice the width of any ordinary piece of furniture, but even so Melbourne had found himself confined to a narrow sliver of mattress. Lily, having successfully evaded her caretakers, was soon joined by her elder brother, who had come in search of her with his usual compunction. When a trio of frantic night nurses gathered the courage to admit two of their three charges had absconded, Victoria had scowled and dismissed them, demanding to see for herself that the baby at least was safely accounted for. So Freddy, never once stirring, had joined the others, making their family whole.

Liam promptly fell back asleep, while Lily showed no such inclination. Melbourne stroked his son's silken curls, content to listen to his wife and daughter share midnight confidences. Victoria, for her part, was unusually mellow, following the little girl's conversational tangents.

_No, my darling, when I was a little girl Grandmama watched me_ very _closely. Yes, because she wanted very much for me to be Queen. No, Elizabeth, you will not be, and must be very glad of it. You will have so much more freedom than I ever did._

Lily surprised Melbourne by asking him to weigh in on whether she was very much like Mama, when Victoria was a little girl.

"You look very much like her," he admitted. "Of course, we only rarely saw your Mama when she was a _very_ little girl like you are now." He delighted both Victoria and Lily by describing the first glimpse he'd had of the Kent child, set up in a phaeton beside King George, newly crowned and resplendent in one of his fine coats. Of course, _then_ he'd had no reason to suppose he would someday have more than a passing interest in the late Duke of Kent's little princess. The King's next brother, the Duke of Clarence, had fathered ten healthy children with Mrs. Jordan and there was still hope his Adelaide could carry a child to term.

Melbourne felt his eyes grow misty, recalling the little girl he'd so briefly seen in Hyde Park, perhaps – he mentally calculated – a few years older than four year old Lily. He'd been little interested in other people's children – it would have been unnatural, had he felt otherwise – and yet, he distinctly recalled the girl, looking even smaller beside George's bulk. Even then, he mused, there had been something unusually vivid and _distinct_ , fully formed, in Princess Alexandrina Victoria.

Melbourne saw Victoria's expression, charmed by his reminiscence, uncertain whether to believe him. He winked.

"After that, I don't recall seeing her again until she was quite old, twelve or even thirteen, I believe. Your great-uncle King William insisted Grandmama allow her to attend a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace. She had not been out much in company, you see. She was small for her years – like you, Miss Princess –" Melbourne gently tickled his daughter, winning shrieks of laughter. "But very much on her dignity, poised and graceful. She wore a white gown with a pearl necklace at her throat, and a diamond clip in her hair."

_Why had I noticed her then?_ Melbourne wondered. _Probably because of all the trouble her mother caused. King William despised the Duchess, and even gentle Queen Adelaide could not quite pretend to like Victoire of Kent._

He saw that he'd surprised Victoria with his admission. It was vaguely disturbing to confess he'd noticed her as a mere child. Certainly she had not, either then or later, in her first months on the throne, stirred his interest with her feminine appeal. Only later, much later, when their acquaintance had deepened to true friendship…but there had always been that sense of _presence,_ of a unique, entirely remarkable being.

"Gloriana," he murmured, thinking aloud.

Lily continued her interrogation, demanding to be told instances of her mother's childhood naughtiness. Victoria, flummoxed, could think of none.

"You see, I worked very hard to follow the rules and do what I knew was right because I could not abide being scolded and criticized." She sounded as though she considered such conduct entirely normal and reasonable, and Melbourne felt overcome by tenderness. _That this exquisite creature could have not only survived, but flourished, despite her bleak joyless Kensington confinement_ –

Melbourne offered up some of the exploits of his own hoydenish and Lily fell asleep drifted off to sleep with her thumb in her mouth.

After that, they lay in comfortable silence for a time, Victoria with Freddy on her stomach and the sleeping princess clinging to a strand of her mother's long hair. Even Deckel the Dachshund slept between them, burrowing beneath the bedcovers.

Eventually the children were returned to the nursery, carried by their father and a hall page. When Melbourne returned he slipped under the sheets once more, folding his long body around Victoria's smaller one. She smiled in her sleep, grasping his hand and placing it under her cheek. Not having the heart to wake her when she must leave so early, he held her and watched over her sleep.

♛

"Everything tends to secure for the Queen an enthusiastic reception, and the one drawback, which is the general distress of all classes, has its advantages, for it will enable the Queen to do what is kind and considerate to those who are suffering," Clarendon said. Melbourne listened without comment.

The luggage had all been loaded onto the Royal yacht, with the Queen's dresser keeping back only a single case with those essentials which might be needed at any time. Melbourne recognized the maid's fixed expression, eyes somewhat glazed and mouth compressed in a thin line as she stared at the choppy waves. He felt much the same, imagining the rough seas ahead.

They had traveled by train from London to Liverpool, where the Queen's yacht waited at harbor. Melbourne and the children would overnight with Fred and Adine at Melbourne Hall, once Victoria was underway.

Every detail of this trip had been structured to convey just the right impression. Gravitas above all, dignity without grandeur. The Queen could not undue a hundred years of mismanagement by the landowning classes, or the crazy chaotic muddle of ineptitude and inefficiency that typified every home-grown attempt at governance. What she could do – what she must do, she had confided in Melbourne – was use every means at her disposal to demonstrate to her Irish subjects and the world at large that she was deeply concerned by the plight of the Irish.

That there was nothing she could do, was what rankled most, Melbourne thought. The same people most eager to point the finger of blame at their sovereign for inaction would have made the loudest outcry at any overt action by that same monarch. Contrary to popular belief, the British had no actual constitution. What they had was the Bill of Rights, which established the supremacy of Parliament over the Crown, and a succession of Acts, court judgments and conventions. While in theory, the sovereign was one-third of the triumvirate which ruled Great Britain, in fact all power rested in the hands of the other two. Could Victoria unilaterally rewrite laws which permitted absentee English landlords to evict their struggling tenants and turn their acreage over to pasture where once food crops had grown? Could she send substantial aid, remit taxes, import grain to feed the starving population? No, so why the devil must she go amongst them, and smile and wave and put her impotence on display where it would be called callous disregard?

"Your Majesty," Clarendon lifted his hat and bowed.

A tent had been erected over the gangway, to allow the Queen to board unseen by the assembled crowd. Lord Clarendon ostentatiously turned away, as though something on the horizon was worthy of scrutiny.

Melbourne picked up her gloved hand in both of his and held it quite chastely. Once, they'd needed no words; a glance was enough to convey volumes, when their connection was new and grew in silence. Victoria's blue eyes blazed with the strength of her devotion and Melbourne knew she found what she sought in his. He squeezed her hand once and released it, stepping back. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, then took the first step toward Ireland.

The wind had freshened enough to cause some concern in those who were not comfortable sailors. Melbourne knew, watching the yacht recede in the distance, that were he onboard he would be retching and reaching for laudanum. Victoria was fortunately immune to seasickness. He could just make out her figure at the rail, looking toward land. Beside her, a much-taller figure blocked the worst of the wind and Melbourne knew, from the bare head and unbound hair, that it was not Clarendon but Billy Cameron.


	14. Chapter 14

Victoria stood at the rail until there was nothing left to see. As they moved farther away from the dock, those standing to watch the Queen's yacht sail away became indistinct, tiny ant-like figures. And yet, she knew with unerring certainty, which was _his_ , that elegant so-handsome figure she had loved – or so it felt – for all of her life.

The wind whipped her bonnet strings into a tangled knot, and then one strong gust rudely snatched it off her head. Billy's hand shot out and caught it mid-air. He replaced it and tied a doubly-knotted bow under her chin. It was perhaps an overly-familiar gesture, but not one to which she could take offense. Billy was just _Billy_ , much more than a servant, not quite a brother. Another boy-cousin, she decided, remembering those giddy carefree times she'd escaped her mother's clutches to flirt with the Georges, Cambridge and Cumberland. They'd been the first to make her feel a sense of feminine awakening, out from her mother's shadow. Even the FitzClarences – whom Mamma called the _bastidy_ – had made their admiration plain.

_How long ago that all seems_ , Victoria thought. _I am now eight-and-twenty years old, so more than a decade ago. And even then, a girl of twelve, thirteen and fourteen, I was aware of_ him _long before he thought much of me._

Melbourne then, in his very first term as Uncle King's Prime Minister. The most suave and handsome of men, always smiling and merry, standing out in whatever company he found himself in. It had touched Victoria more than she'd said at the time, when William so accurately described to their daughter what she'd worn to that first grown-up occasion. As though it were yesterday, she could recall seeing him and wondering who he was. At twelve years old, she had been transfixed, although she could not have said why, and had thought with wonder, _this is what falling in love is like_.

The wind rendered conversation impossible, and so she only stood beside Billy, unwilling to retreat to the comfort of a cabin, savoring the sweetness of her memories. When Victoria finally turned away from the rail, the wind buffeted her so that she might have toppled over, if Billy had not been there to steady her.

Briefing papers were neatly stacked on a low table, cleverly bolted to the floor. Bound portfolios contained the speeches they'd written for her, carefully crafted messages Victoria had marked up to add her own voice. Clarendon sat reading and making notes, as nattily attired as though he were attending her at Windsor. She did not miss the irritated glance he directed at Billy Cameron.

Victoria had studied and prepared, taken counsel and carefully considered her motives for this trip. Where duty lay was of course of paramount importance, and in this case her duty was clear. _The Famine Queen_ , living in luxury in her palaces, oblivious and uncaring, was a description that rankled, but vanity would not suffice as a reason to visit Ireland at such a time. If the sovereign in a constitutional monarchy was a figurehead, serving a predominantly sentimental purpose, then to perform _that_ duty, she must show herself to her Irish subjects and reawaken their attachment to the Crown.

Practically speaking, she could only donate so much in monetary relief – and all of that, from her private funds. However, where the Queen led, the nobility would follow, no one of them wanting to appear deficient in Christian charity. She could not, must not, let the Sultan in Constantinople, distribute equal parts compassion and largesse to the Irish whilst the British Queen did nothing.

Victoria allowed her cloak and bonnet to be removed, then hesitated, torn between the demands of etiquette – Lord Clarendon was _her_ guest, on _her_ ship – and an urge to retire. To sleep and recoup her energy, or just to lay awake with her thoughts. Duty won, and she chose a chair, calling for tea to be brought.

George Villiers, 4th Earl of Clarendon, was, in Victoria's opinion, perfectly interchangeable with so many of his class. A practiced courtier and, in Lord M's estimation, capable minister, Clarendon had been Lord Privy Seal during the Melbourne ministry and then Foreign Secretary under Sir Robert Peel. He had only recently accepted, with a great show of reluctance that bordered on martyrdom, the Lord-Lieutenancy of Ireland. Clarendon had an unenviable job, Lord M had said, and encouraged Victoria to take extenuating circumstances into account before forming an opinion of him.

Victoria had known the Earl for a decade or more, she'd answered pertly, kissing Melbourne's distinguished Roman nose, without forming any opinion of the man at all. He simply _was_ , ubiquitous and unobjectionable, a career servant of Crown and Government with good breeding, impeccable manners and blandly forgettable personality.

Melbourne had laughed at her assessment, accustomed, knowing that the frankness between them would never be repeated outside that privileged circle of two.

Billy had flung his heavy canvas coat over the back of a delicate Louis VIX chair. He shook his head like a dog might, sending droplets of seawater through the air. Then he flung the whole mass back and thumped down onto a sofa, setting his boots on the table. At this, Lord Clarendon glared over the rim of his spectacles and gingerly moved his papers aside, making his disapproval plain.

Victoria watched him speculatively, wanting to see Billy as others did. He never managed to shave himself cleanly, so his strong jaw was emphasized by dark shadow. While he cleaned up well, when he chose to do so, most often Billy affected some unorthodox combination of his old braided uniform coat and tight buckskin breeches with riding boots. He was _kind_ , she told herself severely, and brave and above all loyal. His irreverence and adolescent disdain for etiquette could be, in small doses, a breath of fresh air, yet Victoria cared too much for her own dignity to be comfortable with such a rough manner. As for the humor that sent her ladies into gales of laughter – Victoria was rarely as amused as those tittering girls who followed him from room to room. Lord M's wit, on the other hand, that cynical dry humor, his observations of the foibles of others, the quaint sayings that she'd once written down assiduously…her lips twitched, wanting to laugh aloud remembering.

Aware that Lord Clarendon was watching her curiously, Victoria frowned, then composed her features. She took a delicate china teacup and pretended fascination with the contents.

_One rarely acts from a single motive_. Something Lord M once said, she decided. It must be; there was no one else whose words were etched indelibly in her memory. _Men – and women – are complex creatures, and few ever trouble themselves to look within._

Victoria had agreed, as soon as the suggestion was laid before her, to travel to Ireland. She had not waited to discuss it with Melbourne, only told Lord Russell to convey her decision to the Privy Council. She knew as soon as she'd formed the intent, that she would go alone. _Why?_

Even contemplating a solo venture, deliberately cutting Lord M out of the process, made her feel somewhat guilty – but not so guilty she would change her mind. _Why?_

When she pondered her own motivation, Victoria had an image of her childhood riding lessons. She sat atop a pony, led by two grooms at a sedate pace around the ring. Two more grooms walked on either side, ready to catch her if she fell. It was all a part of her mother's vigilance, no different than being continually _watched_. She slept beside the Duchess, never walked up or down stairs without someone holding her hand and was never, _ever_ alone. It hadn't felt like love, at least from anyone except dear Lehzen. She had always been aware that their care stemmed from an unspoken _value_ they placed on her.

It all ended abruptly a month after she'd reached her majority. _No_ , Victoria corrected herself, _I ended it._ Shaken off all restraints when she'd assumed the mantle and crown.

Lord M was the first person in her life to treat her as an adult, a fully formed _person_. He looked at her as though he _saw_ her, and very much liked what he saw. He gave her courage, she remembered, when she'd needed it most, and by his complete confidence in her, he had fostered her belief in herself.

All that, and so much more, he gave me, without ever once attempting to dictate or control. There was perfect honestly between them, from the beginning, she unable to prevaricate or conceal her feelings and he – well, _he_ never changed who he was, to make an impression or advance a goal.

Then _why_ did I want to do this without him? Victoria poked and prodded, wanting to understand. Not because she desired distance, or because her joy in his company had waned. Only _because_ , was the best reason she could had. _Because I've never done anything truly on my own._

_He will be proud of me,_ she told herself as consolation. _He guided and mentored me and helped me become who I am._

And, she added with ruthless honesty, _I will discover for myself what I can do on my own._

Already she missed him, craved that nearness so desperately she felt a cramping ache inside. Knowing he was drawing further away with every minute that passed left Victoria breathless, on the verge of panic. And yet, it was a good and necessary thing, to withstand such latent hysteria.

_Only a week_ , she reminded herself. _Seven – well, no, strictly speaking, nine days. But a week on the ground, busy with engagements. Banquets and processions and being paraded around by this or that dignitary. Even a Roman Catholic bishop, in a public display of the new tolerance Lord M himself had worked for. And then –_

Victoria pictured herself casting dignity aside and running pell-mell into his arms. He would lift her up and swing her around, as he did their four-year-old daughter. And she would cover his handsome face with kisses in full view of the world!

♛

The royal family had traveled by train from London to Liverpool and now, short one member, would return by way of Derby. The explosive expansion of railroads cut hours, if not days, from such a trip. Melbourne had not written to let Fred know of his coming. Somehow, it had seemed as if to do so would only solidify the plan. He had foolishly held out hope until the last, that Victoria would relent and beg him to accompany her.

_Oh well,_ he thought, _or as old Silly Billy would have said, 'Stuff!'_

They couldn't have had a sweeter last night, even if it had not been the one he envisioned. Sharing their bed with the children – surprisingly, it was Lily who clung the hardest to her mother – had been sublime in a way mere lovemaking was not. _Their_ children, visible evidence of their parents' union, a bond more permanent than the ink on marriage lines.

_He_ , more than most men, knew how fragile such a bond could be. Marriage was no guarantee of permanency, any more than it could build impregnable walls around the human heart.

Had she grown out of her love for him? Melbourne had always known how foolish it was to take a woman too young. Marriage, he'd once cynically said, was an impossible state of affairs. That he'd spoken out of youthful arrogance didn't make it any less true. People grew and changed as they reached for maturity. Who was the same person at thirty or forty or more that they were at eighteen?

_Not I, certainly_ , Melbourne said, wincing at the memory of an eighteen-year-old William Lamb, just out of Trinity College, not having set foot in Edinburgh yet. Still writing his mother daily – well, to be fair, she was not an ordinary mother, more of a friend and confidante. Ignorant of the world, thinking himself a sophisticate, concealing an essentially shy, fastidious nature behind the bravado of youth.

Certainly, he could never fault Victoria if she were to look around one day and realize things had changed. _Then_ , she'd been an impetuous girl thrust into the spotlight, without even the ordinary coming-out into society of other debutantes. She had never been courted, never flirted, never had a string of young gentlemen begging for a line on her dance card. He had been the first adult male with whom she was acquainted, and she'd imprinted on him like a duckling fresh from the egg.

She was, above all, honest to a fault, genuine and without the ability to dissemble. She would never follow the path of polite deception taken by so many other well-born ladies wed too young. Victoria would not take a lover, he knew without a doubt; nor would she, _could_ she, divorce. But it was entirely possible to lead separate lives under one roof, particularly a roof as expansive as Buckingham Palace or Windsor.

_Is that where we're headed_? He wondered. If so, all he could do was stand by with tolerance, even grace. She had bestowed upon him more happiness than most men experienced in a lifetime, and he would not dream of holding her back if she felt she had to have more.

It wouldn't be as easy as that, he knew. Their marriage was too closely watched and remarked upon. That Melbourne and Victoria were an inseparable team, was a firm tenet of public perception. Even the fact that they shared a bedchamber, unheard-of amongst the upper classes, was an open secret.

He was watched closely for signs of infirmity, a fact of which Melbourne was uncomfortably aware. Now, looking ahead, he was glad of it, because it meant that Victoria would not be subject to vicious rumors, if their intimate situation changed.

Melbourne looked down fondly at the two heads on his lap. Lily's tangled locks were as dark as Victoria's, her eyes the same vivid Hanover blue. Liam was the very image of his own youthful portraits, fine-featured with soft light brown curls and Melbourne's gray-blue eyes.

Both children slept. Lily's thumb was firmly in her mouth despite all Lehzen's efforts to curb the practice, and Liam grasped a tattered blanket, his fingers stroking the ragged satin binding.

They would be unaffected by any change in their parents' marital condition, he knew. Both he and Victoria loved them, and children accepted what _was_. There would be no discord, no open enmity. She was too kind and good, and he was long practiced in hiding unpleasant emotion.

Melbourne thought with resignation, whatever changes might come, they will be all right _. As for myself…I will manage, so long as I can be near her._ He was feverishly glad then, of the public scrutiny which would prevent him being sent away.


	15. Chapter 15

_The Great Basin, as seen from the Birdcage, looking up towards Melbourne Hall._

* * *

Melbourne's mind was fogged with fatigue and he wanted nothing more than to collapse into the feather bed his sister-in-law had prepared. Failing that, he would settle for unfastening his constricting neckcloth and loosening his high collar points. He wondered what Mr. Eaton and the other worthy gentlemen would do, if he were to remove his shoes and put stockinged feet up on the divan. They were clean enough, Melbourne thought, and the notion made him smile.

"I daresay you will agree with me when I say…Wellington never misses a chance to suppress all hope of reform…Stanley gave a most stirring speech…"

The children had slept on the train and reached Melbourne Hall full of pent-up energy, ready to explode into activity. Fred's wife Alexandrina, called Adine in the family, was childless and likely to remain so, and lavished her niece and nephews with unbridled affection. She could only briefly coo over Freddy before Liam and Lily tugged at her hands, clamoring for her full attention. Melbourne scarcely noticed the second young woman, until Adine introduced her school friend, come to stay at the Hall during a sketching holiday.

When his brother's wife had taken the children away, trailed by her friend, and the housekeeper was dispatched to have rooms made ready, Melbourne followed his brother into the dim, cool library.

They had no shortage of matters to discuss. Recent improvements to the estate, Victoria's Irish visit, and what she might encounter in that troubled land, local politics and Lord Elgin in Canada, Fred's gout and the new troubles in Portugal, were all touched upon. Their family had always been uncommonly close, and the two surviving brothers found in each other a friendship which could not be duplicated elsewhere.

They naturally thought alike on most things, their world-view generally aligned. Even more important to Melbourne, with his brother he could speak freely without the self-censoring which had become second nature with anyone except Victoria.

"It seemed important that it not appear to be a _pleasure_ trip, or that the Queen and her family were engaging in what Mr. Dickens calls _poverty tourism_. Too much of that already, under the pretense of philanthropy and social reform, but really nothing more than the satisfaction of voyeurism. I say, leave the poor alone, don’t expect them to roleplay for the gratification of worthies who want to see evidence that the disadvantaged are ennobled by their suffering."

Fred agreed on the instant, understanding the wisdom of such a position. The Queen must show herself – and he gave her full credit for courage – and bolster the weakening support of the native population for continued English governance. _Home rule_ was the buzzword of the day, Fred drawled, his tone full of pained irony. What had started with the American colonies would someday, perhaps not in their lifetime or even the Queen's, spread throughout the empire.

"'Empire' is a fine word, and will be our brother-in-law's legacy. British hegemony will not end anytime soon. Certainly not in our lifetime, and I pray not in the Queen's. Or our – her son. What Harry works for is Liam's legacy. A strong and prosperous British empire that spans the globe."

"To spread the advantages of civilization and Christianity and lift the natives from poverty and hopelessness, with education and indoctrination in our values." Fred's voice was now so heavy with sarcasm that he drawled.

"You don't believe in Harry's vision of expansion of British interests?" Melbourne asked, curious. He took a long slow swallow of brandy, and felt the warmth spread through his veins.

"Of course, I do. I devoted my career to it. Well, long before our Lord Palmerston reached high places, we all hoped to export our brand of enlightenment abroad. That's what Whiggishness is, or was. Before the French showed us how reform can run amok, and power must be centralized for the good of all."

They continued in that vein for long enough so that both men were mellow with brandy and good conversation.

"Adine's gone abroad – home, for her – to visit her father without me on several occasions. She spent two months in Vienna last year. There was a time you would have agreed wholeheartedly that a marriage cannot prosper if husband and wife are chained to one another."

The change of subject startled Melbourne out of his relaxed complacency. He met Fred's eyes and lifted a brow.

"Yes," he purred. "There was a time I might have. And my felicitations to your lovely wife. I hope she had a pleasant journey. Mine travels for duty. Not to mention, our circumstances differ."

"We both married for love, and both married very young women who set their sights on us. Not so very different, eh?" Fred grinned.

"England has always done better with Queens than Kings. Elizabeth, Anne…Victoria." Fred's statement was deliberately blameless, Melbourne acknowledged. A diplomat's trick, once an unpleasant point has been made.

"Dammit, all right. I admit it stings. Not that I must do without her for a week, although we are not accustomed to separation. But that she might not need me as she once did, to mentor and guide her, to support her in the performance of her duties."

Melbourne reached for the decanter and poured, drank.

"Do you know – can you imagine – what a balm it was to my spirit, to see that divine young woman look at me with admiration, to hang on my every word? I've never been particularly ambitious and had no interest in power for power's sake, but neither was it pleasant to be the butt of jokes, considered as little more than a placeholder minister between crises." He sighed, deflated. Voiced aloud, his concerns plainly arose from a bruised ego and sounded faintly ridiculous to his own ears. Still…

"And yet…it's the basis of who we _are_ , Fred. Victoria and her Lord M. When I have nothing more to teach her –" he shrugged, not expecting an answer.

"Victoria is an intelligent woman, William. Perhaps not in the way one is accustomed to, but she is. Your wife isn't one for dialectical discussion and has no inclination for philosophy. She is single-minded, and lacks your facility for seeing all sides of an issue. Once she gives her heart and her _trust_ into another's keeping, it isn't in her to change course.

"In love and in life, Her little Majesty has pledged herself to you. Nothing will alter that, nor will she suddenly cease needing her friend and confidante. That she could undertake this trip alone signifies the confidence she's gained from you, brother. For God's sake quit looking for trouble where there is none."

Had anyone else presumed to explain Victoria to Melbourne, he would have snubbed them and walked away. He was not a fighter, or a fist to the nose might as readily meet the need of the moment. In his brother's case, such a speech had the contrary effect, if not entirely relieving then certainly mitigating the persistent anxiety he felt.

Just then, the butler came in to announce the Lord Mayor of Derby, whose arrival was followed in quick succession by a neighboring squire and William Evans, arguably the richest man in the Midlands. The Evans family had made a fortune from lead mines at Bonsall, a cotton mill at Darley Abbey, a foundry or some such thing – Melbourne could not recollect precisely what – and the Evans Bank in Derby.

Melbourne was not pleased by the interruption, but resigned himself nonetheless. Such self-made men, with their evident conviction that a fortune devoid of sweat and blood was no fortune worth having, were generally tedious in the extreme, having little conversation beyond business and finance and far too much earnestness for his taste. He didn't much like the middle classes, and felt that while the higher and lower classes had some good in them, such middle class strivers were generally all affectation and conceit, pretense and concealment. And a tendency to judge others by their own assumed moral superiority.

He bestirred himself and shook off his lassitude, returning the bows of each gentlemen in turn. Fred did the honors, relying upon the graces honed in a long diplomatic career to guide the conversation so that his unwanted guests did not feel entirely out of place.

Adine's cook managed to put together a tolerable dinner, and she presided prettily over the table. When the last course was removed, she left the gentlemen to their porter and excused herself to check on the children.

It amused Melbourne to guess what each of his brother's neighbors wanted, but that they wanted _something_ he had no doubt.

Would there be delay in implanting provisions of the Factory Act? Was there liable to be a re-levying of the income tax, to fund the distribution of Irish aid? Would troops go to Portugal? How much longer could Louis-Phillipe last on the throne? One had a likely young fellow eager to find a place in some office in Whitehall, the second hoped for inside information that would gain him an advantage in the Exchange. The third, a first-generation _Honorable_ , sought advancement for his adolescent son, a patronage which might open doors mere fortune could not.

None of the men present had sufficient rank or family connections to give them any natural conduit to the landed aristocracy. All of them were prosperous self-made men, with that pushy insistence on recognition of their own hard-won status. Such men, the new upper-middle-class, wearied Melbourne as much as they threatened the old status quo. Yet, and he was blunt in his own admission, it was not entirely unpleasant to once more be the subject of such fawning attention. Melbourne Hall was his ducal seat – entailed as it was, Fred could only had lifetime tenancy – and as it was the seat of the Queen's consort, every one of his neighbors felt pride of proximity.

Melbourne was careful to avoid making promises he could not keep, or to say anything which might be construed as speaking on behalf of the Crown. That made for a tedious evening, so that he was relieved when Adine entered the room. She squinted against the thick blue cigar smoke and spoke softly to Melbourne.

"William, Nanny is quite unable to settle little Freddy. Might you come and see if your presence soothes him?"

Those words, or something like them, had been directed to Melbourne in this house a long time before. Augustus had been a difficult baby, with a fussiness that sometimes bordered on hysterics, and when all else failed his father was the only one who could quiet him.

"Freddy is the easiest infant," he told Adine, worried, as he climbed the stairs beside her. "You don't think he's ill? Perhaps it's the travel, or missing his mother."

A plaintive wail reached him as soon as they reached the second floor. Melbourne considered the possibilities. It was a fact that Freddy rarely cried, for there was no need. Surrounded by doting attendants, his every need was met before he had the opportunity to express dissatisfaction, and he had a happy disposition seldom marred by babyish squalls.

All three children had been fed and bathed and were cherubic in their white nightgowns. Freddy was indeed fussing, red-faced and sweaty, but he fell silent as soon as Melbourne stood over his cradle.

"You looked like you needed my intervention," Adine said, smiling conspiratorially. "Fred has much practice in dealing with our long-winded friends. He will placate Mr. Eaton with Madeira and empty platitudes."

Melbourne showed her his most charming smile, liking Fred's wife greatly. There were many similarities beyond age and name, between Victoria and her namesake Alexandrina. Another young woman who gave her heart to a man more than twice her age, another pious, practical, well-bred girl with quiet good looks rather than a more flamboyant beauty. Sadly, they differed in their ability to bear children. Adine had not, to Melbourne's knowledge, ever so much as conceived, while Victoria's fecundity had to be guarded against, or she might have been constantly pregnant.

Melbourne sent Adine back downstairs with his excuses. Liam and even Lily got into their beds without protest. He heard their prayers in their mother's place, then took up a book and read aloud until they slept, cradling his infant son in the crook of his arm. After the agreed-upon number of pages, he kissed them and bid them goodnight.

He had been given the master bedchamber, unchanged since his previous visit. Freddy tolerated being laid upon the bed for as long as it took for Melbourne's valet to undress him. Then he took the baby back into his arms and settled into an armchair. The baby had calmed, ragged shuddering sighs the only evidence of his prior distress. Nothing in the room had been altered, in the past thirty-odd years. The same gold embroidery on dark red hangings, the same carved headboard. Even the chair he sat in seemed to have held his shape, from those long-ago nights he'd sat up until dawn.

 _This house, this room, another fussy baby, so very long ago_. The shades of his past seemed to hover close. George Augustus was the baby he'd held and Caro his absent mother. She had not been built for childbirth and took many months to recover. Their firstborn was a difficult child, easily overstimulated and Caro had not taken readily to mothering an infant. Her later devotion was unquestioned, but it had taken the form of an endless search for the next tutor, the next treatment, the next miracle cure, leaving hands-on care to her husband.

Augustus had shown an affinity for his father, a tendency commented on so frequently that it made Caro even less willing to try. Melbourne would sit up at night, holding the boy, conversing at length, speaking his thoughts aloud. His philosophical reflections, the news of the day, some thorny political question with which Melbourne wrestled, were the lullabies he sang to Augustus. Through a troubled childhood and stormy adolescence into a painfully abnormal manhood, Melbourne had talked to his son as though to an equal and refused to alter the custom no matter how cruelly feeble-minded George Augustus remained.

Melbourne did the same now, speaking his memories aloud, and Freddy was likewise transfixed, his blue eyes fixed on his father's face.

 _Fatherhood becomes you._ He knew whose drawling voice, fond, touched by sarcasm, he heard in his mind. _Marriage becomes you as well_.

"Yes, Caro," he would have said, had he answered back that figment of his imagination. "I believe it does."

_Pity, that we found each other too soon. If I had been older, more seasoned…_

"No, Caro," was the ready response. "You would have always been you. Ariel, Queen of the Fairies, not meant for ordinary life. I would not have wished to change you. Our life was…what it was."

_And you, Willie, craved ordinary comforts as an antidote to your mother and the life she led._

"Not true!" he wanted to protest. "My mother was –" It was an old argument of theirs. Caro would blame his mother's interference for everything that went awry between them. She would heap praise on _him_ , of course, but those accolades only made him think of Mr. Pope's infamous quote.

"' _Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, and without sneering, teach the rest to sneer'_." But that was hardly Caroline's way. No, it was his, rather. He used language as skillfully as any fencer, thrusting and parrying, then dancing out of the way before a return blow could be struck.

 _She is not me, Willie,_ Caro persisted, making Melbourne wonder whether it was only his surroundings which conjured her voice in his mind. _But you are still you. So long as you could lead me, teach me to question everything, teach me to sneer_ – there, Melbourne thought with bitter glee, what more evidence do I need, that this voice from the past springs from my own unconscious? – _you were content. But when I began to find my footing, you changed. Withdrew, just a trifle. Turned away. You pretended you didn't care, until you made it true. And I…I was determined to_ make _you show you cared._

"I cared," Melbourne said quietly, speaking his thoughts out loud. "But I don't live in the past."

Freddy's head had been resting against his shoulder, but just then he lifted and showed Melbourne a comically quizzical expression.

"And I am not threatened by my wife's independence. I never _wanted_ a clinging ninny, unable to think for herself. Nor do I doubt her affection, or her fidelity either for that matter.

Melbourne imagined the smile Caro would wear if ghosts were real, that teasing, taunting, insolent expression and underneath it all, the truth of her love. She had never stopped loving him, more truly, more deeply, than she had ever cared for the poet or any of the other lovers she took and then cast aside. He imagined her ethereal prettiness too, the translucent skin and delicate bone structure, the arresting face under a cap of cropped curls. How he had loved her once! She was like no one else in the world, wild, untamed, defiant in the face of etiquette and expectation, an untrammeled spirit.

He rubbed his cheek against Freddy's soft hair, kissed his head, picked up a small hand and brought it to his lips. Then he smiled gently, his eyes sad and wistful.

"Does he have your blessing, Caro?" Melbourne asked, and this time he gave the thought voice.

 _You've always had it, Willie_ , she drawled. " _And your children as well_."

Melbourne still felt her presence – not surprising, since she'd once been mistress of Melbourne Hall – but he heard nothing more except the sound of Freddy's breathing, felt nothing but the soft weight of sleeping baby against his heart. He gently nudged the baby's head so that it once more lay in the hollow of his neck, then began humming tunelessly.

Soon enough, he knew by the sweet heaviness of the little body he held, that the child was deeply asleep. He debated whether or not to return the boy to his cradle, but in the end fell asleep in his chair, as he had so many times before.


	16. Chapter 16

_My dearest, I miss you already and we are not yet ashore. The sea has been choppy and I confess to some unease. Billy is a stalwart seaman, or so he wants me to think. Like you, my darling, he talks little and holds himself oddly stiff._

_We are docked at the very entrance to Cork Harbor, and shortly I shall go ashore The little town of Cobh is to be renamed Queenstown in my honour, as the place where I first stepped foot on Irish soil._

_I send you all my love, and hold you in my heart._

♣

_Oh, my darling William, how to express the welcome these good people showed me! The ordinary townspeople threw flowers and cheered me as I went by. Ecclesiastical and political dignitaries greeted me most warmly. I cannot describe our route, but it will suffice to say that it took two hours; that we drove through the principal streets; twice through some of them; that they were densely crowded and decorated with flowers and triumphal arches. Our reception was most enthusiastic and everything went off to perfection and was very well arranged. Cork is not at all like an English town, it looks rather foreign. The crowd is noisy and excitable, but very good-natured, running and pushing about, laughing, talking and shrieking._

_When you read these lines in my journal, you will know that I wrote them for you. The joy I take in seeing these sights is multiplied by the pleasure I take in writing down all my observations so you may share them as though you are here._

♣

Victoria laid aside her journal, careful to turn the lock first. For the duration of this trip she would wear its key on a thin chain around her neck. She was determined to write at every opportunity, already envisioning how sweet it would be to go over each line with William. There was already so much to tell, more than she wrote, but they would have ample time when they were together again.

The women were very handsome, and wore their flowing black hair loose. In England, only prostitutes would be seen bare-headed, but in Ireland it appeared to be the fashion. Many of the men they passed along the road were ragged and even shoeless, but even they raised their heads with a smile.

This visit had been ill-advised, so said some of her most influential ministers. Victoria had immediately grasped the necessity of showing herself, lest she be viewed as heartless or afraid. She fully recognized the danger, although knew it would not be to herself. The Irish were a chivalrous people, and would not draw the blood of their Queen. It was the men who traveled with her who ran the risk.

She knew herself to be afraid of much – the polite sneers and blank looks of those courtiers who still looked down on their German rulers; the sophisticated beauties who viewed her with scorn, even as they made their admiration for the Queen's husband plain. But she also knew she was no coward, when it came to physical danger. It would be for William's sake she would have been fearful, had he been at her side when she faced these proud hungry people. _No_ , _that is not the_ _only reason I made up my mind to come alone. I wanted to show him how well he taught me; I am his legacy. He made me all that I am._

That familiar cramping ache gripped her at the thought of the distance between them. _How will I bear the days without him, the nights alone in a strange bed?_

Victoria picked up her pen again and pressed the pages of her journal open to still them against the jostling coach. _You are my everything, William, and all that I am is yours._

♛

There could be no more glorious place on earth, Melbourne thought, than England on a summer day.

He'd planned no more than an overnight stay, before returning with the children to Windsor. Victoria had sweetly coerced his promise to not go to Brocket Hall without her, but had said nothing of Melbourne Hall. Nominally his country seat, the Midlands property had never felt as much like home as dear Brocket. Years with an absentee landlord, rented first to émigrés and then a succession of well-to-do industrialists, had taken a toll on both manor house and gardens.

Upon Fred's retirement and return to England with a young bride on his arm, he had overseen the process of bringing Melbourne Hall back to its proper state. The property was entailed and would go with the title, unlike Brocket Hall, but Melbourne encouraged Fred and Adine to consider it their home.

They had taken a picnic lunch, trundled by servants following behind, and set out to walk the gardens so Adine could show off her new plantings. Originally laid out according in the manner of le Notre, the grounds offered broad sweeps of lawn, avenues and unexpected vistas. Fred's sprightly little wife had applied herself to their restoration, judiciously introducing select new specimens and retaining artisans to restore the famed Birdcage and statuary.

Adine and her school friend walked ahead, arm-in-arm, while the children frolicked about them. Melbourne and his brother followed behind, accompanied by Deckel and Adine's lapdogs. Servants brought up the rear, a maid pushing Freddy's wicker carriage, two more swinging picnic baskets and several footmen bearing chilled decanters of wine, beer and lemonade.

The young German woman walking with Adine had a sweet, blushing shyness that appealed to Melbourne and encouraged him to be gentle. She stammered and looked away each time he tried an amusing comment, so he contented himself with benign observations. A small folding easel, paper and watercolors were neatly packed into the small portmanteau she insisted on carrying herself. Melbourne had chivalrously offered to relieve her of the burden, but she had only blushed fiercely and ducked her head.

The sun was growing almost uncomfortably warm, when Adine proposed they stop and rest. The place she chose was ideal for the purpose, a lush carpet of sun-dappled grass under a canopy of ancient chestnut trees.

The first thing Melbourne did, when a blanket was spread, was to lift Freddy out of his carriage. The poor thing was swathed in layers of clothing, gown, petticoats, bonnet and shawl, entirely too warm for the weather. He undid what he could and appealed to Adine for the rest, until only a vest and nappies remained. Melbourne grinned at the sight of fat little limbs kicking and stretching, exulting at their new freedom.

Not to be outdone, Lily and Liam promptly removed shoes and stockings and ran about shrieking with pleasure while the youngest nursery attendant tried to keep up. From their current perspective, intriguing vistas beckoned in every direction – the yew tunnel with its mysterious shadows, a moss-covered stone wishing well and, beyond a small rise, the 20-acre Great Basin and mill stream. He would show them the more ferocious stone gargoyles, Melbourne thought, and throw pebbles down the well, but first let them expend excess energy.

"Abigail, stay with them!" Adine called out to the nursemaid, before he could. "Don't let them near the wa-"

Melbourne, knowing full well the effect of such a prohibition, raised his finger to his lips and shook his head.

Fred rumbled with silent laughter, and Melbourne joined in. "Boys will be boys," he said wisely. "And your girl – well, remember Em at her age."

"Always determined to keep up with us. There was nothing the little devil wouldn't dare."

The ladies took lemonade, the gentlemen beer, and for a while they watched the children in silence. Adine's expression was wistful, Fred's inscrutable. Melbourne wondered whether his brother yearned for an heir. He had only the title Victoria bestowed, to pass on to a son of his own. Men, even brothers, rarely confided such personal longings in one another, at least in any context other than primogeniture.

Suddenly feeling as though even idle speculation was prying, Melbourne turned his attention to the young woman's sketch pad. She drew in soft pastels, using the side of her hand to erase and quickly move on.

"May I see?" he asked, carefully courteous. The blushes came again, but she surrendered her pad.

"My wife also draws. Our rooms are filled with her sketches of the dogs and children."

"I am not an artist," she volunteered. "No one would display my work. I draw for pleasure only."

"For how long do you remain in England?"

"A month, I think," she answered. Her accent was delicate and pleasant to the ears. _Frankfurt_? Melbourne wondered, knowing that was where Adine had been born. Or Vienna, where she'd been living with her father, Count Joachim von Maltzan, a statesman and diplomat like the man who would become her husband?

"I return then to Nuremburg, and to – to my real life," she added. "But first, I wish to see the north. Adine has written to me many times, asking me to come, but until now I was unable to get away."

Melbourne grinned when she closed her mouth primly, clearly embarrassed at having confided so much.

"Your husband does not object to your traveling alone?" he asked, curious. How did other couples manage such things?

"I do not have a husband," the young woman said. "I take care of my father and manage our business affairs."

She reached out her hands and Melbourne returned her drawing pad. He watched the quick, sure movement of her fingers as she began a new sketch. Just then Lily came running, arms akimbo, and threw herself into his arms.

Melbourne settled her onto his legs and looked at the fresh scrape on one bare knee. He made appropriately sympathetic sounds as he took a damp rag from the maid to dab at the beads of fresh blood, then tease a sliver from the sole of her foot. Lily did not cry, only bent her head to oversee his ministrations, her tongue clamped between her teeth.

"Shall I find you a shell, Papa?" she asked when he was done. _Shells_ , he thought, _must mean she's discovered the water._

"Not today, sweetheart," he said swiftly. "The swans will be about, and we mustn't disturb them, or their papa will be angry." Lily had previously encountered an angry cob intent on protecting his family. She swallowed hard, nodded solemnly. "Shall I show you the stone monsters instead?"

Melbourne stood and stretched his legs, then arched his back. His cravat was wilted from heat and he untied the knot, letting the ends hang free.

"Come darling, let's explore. Ask Uncle Fred if he'd like to go with us?"

Lily swung herself between them, clinging to each of their hands, as Melbourne and his brother strolled through the shadows, under the arching overhanging yews.

"Adine wants to go on holiday with her friend, just the two of them, although I daresay they'll hire a guide."

"Holiday?" Melbourne repeated, wondering whether he heard an undercurrent of something more.

"Sketching holiday, walking tour of the north – they'll stop in Yorkshire, before going up toward the Scottish border. Drawing pictures of rocks and trees," Fred said doubtfully, shaking his head.

"And you – doubt it?"

"No, I don't doubt it. I only wonder what's so damned appealing about tramping through the moors, toting that woman's easels."

Melbourne was tempted to laugh but didn't. He remembered his brother's dismissal of his own misgivings. _Adine had left him the summer before, ostensibly to pay a visit to her family._

"I can't say," Melbourne admitted.

"Never mind me. I've grown accustomed to her care of me. Our bachelor days are behind us, eh? If the idea of such brief absence throws us into a tizzy."

Nothing more was said, but Melbourne filed it away, hoping he was wrong about something deeper amiss.

Lily covered her eyes and shrieked with pleasurable fear, when he lifted her to stare at the gargoyles. Carved into four sides of a great stone vase, supposedly the gift of Queen Anne, the creatures leered with mouths half-open, pitted eye sockets making them even more gruesome.

"I'll take her," Fred offered, reaching for the girl. Lily hung back momentarily, then went into her uncle's arms.

Liam had found an old rope swing and had taught himself the trick of pumping his legs to soar. Lily demanded to take a turn, so they set her down and her brother relinquished his seat.

When they returned to the grove where the blankets were spread, Adine and her friend were deep in conversation. She looked up brightly and instantly began setting out plates for the food her maids were serving. Freddy had been taken back to the house so that his wet nurse could feed him, but a remarkably lifelike image executed in pastels remained in his place on the blanket.

"Do you think it looks like him, Lord Melbourne?" the young woman asked, hesitant and unsure.

"Very much like him," Melbourne answered, searching his memory for her surname and title. "May I take this home to his mother, Miss…? Fraulein? Lady…?"

"Please, call me Gabriela."


	17. Chapter 17

_Dawn, Melbourne Hall_

If the Queen's visit had been viewed with skepticism by some, cynicism by others and trepidation by those most closely affiliated with its inception, by her fourth day on Irish soil nothing but relief and approbation remained. Her itinerary was crafted with surgical precision, likewise the roster of dignitaries and influencers with whom she met. Lord Clarendon, who arguably had the most riding on the outcome of her tour, took almost personal pride in Victoria's success, and regarded it as positive progress against Irish disloyalty to the Crown.

The Queen was a young, fashionable and attractive woman, which went a long ways toward guaranteeing appeal. But in Clarendon's estimation, as he confided to Lord Lyndhurst, it was her poise and sophisticated ease of manner which won the day. He easily recognized the origin of such social ease, and her highly refined communication skills as well. Even the showmanship with which she raised and lowered the royal standard, not once or twice but thrice, in salute to the people of Dublin was a credit to her most famous mentor.

"It could have all gone wrong, and we'd be a republic today," he confided to Lord Bute, watching Victoria gracefully greet the guests assembled in her honor at Carton House. Bute nodded sagely.

"We have Melbourne to thank for it all. After her uncles' coarseness and extravagance, if the pendulum had swung too far in the other direction and we'd ended up with a humorless dowd or a prude –"

"You mean cast in the mould of that boy cousin she first married? All earnestness hiding hypocrisy?"

"Now, now, I heard it from Melbourne himself, that Prince Albert was a promising lad. Who amongst us isn't a bit stiff and wrong-footed, when we first step onto a public stage?"

"Nonetheless, I can't say I'm sorry we have the consort we do – or the Queen he has given us. Dammit, Her little Majesty is just what a Queen should be!"

It was Lord Clarendon's turn to nod his agreement.

"The Queen has, by her manner, given universal satisfaction, omitting nothing that could please, so that the feeling in her favor has gone on crescendo from the moment of her arrival."

Others discussing Victoria that evening, in the Duke of Leinster's ballroom, more cynically assessed her effect on the Irish peasant classes, describing it alternately as fascination, awe and near-religious appeal. She displayed exactly the degree of pageantry and spectacle that endeared her to the masses, gauging her public exposure – and that of her family, by extension – to yield the desired effect, neither too common nor entirely out of reach. Dignitaries such as Edward Carpenter and Lord Dufferin were overheard exchanging opinions on the moderating effect Victoria had on even the most ardent nationalists.

"He's made her a Whig in his image," Dufferin murmured. "And it's no bad thing, even Wellington and the arch-Tories agree. Yet O'Connell and his ilk, even that sullen firebrand John Mitchell, have softened their opposition and some believe she's secretly sympathetic to their cause."

"That sounds like our old friend Melbourne," Carpenter rebutted. "Agree with all sides and take action for none."

"Which is precisely what we need in a Queen. This isn't Russia or, God forbid, France before the revolution. This is England, where our monarchs know their place."

Too well-bred to say so aloud, in some cases, or too cowed by the presence of royalty, in others, was the universal opinion that the Queen's portraits did not do her justice. In person, her features were pleasing and well-defined, imbued with the strength of her character. There was an unmistakable femininity in her slim figure and supple movements, and something ineffable that communicated the sheer physicality and _awareness_ of a woman satisfied with every aspect of conjugal life.

 _Melbourne is a most fortunate man_ , was the closest anyone dared to come to an observation which would be unforgivably crass if not lèse-majesté. When uttered, the banal phrase was met with a look of amused understanding between men who thoroughly agreed.

♛

Twinkling fairy lights in the branches did not sparkle more brightly than stars in the deep velvet sky. The scene before his eyes was so entirely delightful that it seemed distinctly unfair Victoria could not be at his side to enjoy it.

The Duchess of Rutland had spared no expense for her Midsummer's Eve ball. _Not_ a ball, she had corrected him modestly, only a small entertainment for our closest friends.

Those "closest friends" easily numbered a hundred, Melbourne estimated. The Duchess, an old friend, had assured him he would be welcomed, even without a firm commitment on his part. Belvoir was scarcely thirty-six miles from Derby, and arguably not far out of his way. He had risen at dawn, to walk through the gardens, knowing it might be his last look at Melbourne Hall for a long time.

The rail spur could get them no farther than halfway there, so once again he departed by carriage. A damned fine carriage it was too, bearing the Manners' crest and every conceivable luxury for passenger comfort. All for an evening's amusement in congenial company, but then he had no pressing business to claim his attention.

Liam made no complaint; it was Lily who loudly protested the abrupt change in plans.

"I want to go _home_ , Papa, and so does Liam. You _must_ take us now." She stamped her foot and crossed her arms, looking every inch a tiny queen. Thwarted, she rode in silence more compelling than any expression of anger. Melbourne exerted every ounce of charm he possessed, to win one of her smiles. When a single fat tear rolled down Lily's cheek he nearly called for the coachman to stop.

"How will Mama _find_ us?" she wailed forlornly. Resisting all comfort from Melbourne, she huddled beside her brother and Liam manfully put his arm around her instead.

They drove through a portico sheltered by six foot walls, and drew up beside the main entrance.

Elizabeth Manners, Duchess of Rutland, was waiting to greet them, obviously alerted by a groom riding hard to warn of their arrival.

She had the aquiline nose and regal bearing of a Howard, and was a handsome woman almost exactly Melbourne's age. She might have been the Dowager Duchess, except her son the 6th Duke had not married.

"Your Royal Highness, we are honored to have you," she said formally, even dipping into an elegant curtsy. Liam, with perfect poise, nodded his head in return. Then he showed her the shy smile which had won over stonier hearts.

"Duke, I am so pleased you could attend our little soirée." Melbourne took her hand in his and bowed from the neck.

"Elizabeth, you are in better looks each time I see you," he said, liking her greatly and liking, too, the pleasant sense of nostalgia that went with meeting such an old and dear friend.

They were shown to a suite large enough so that the children and their nurses could sleep in the next room to Melbourne. He did not have to ask, for hot baths to be drawn and refreshments brought on trays.

Bathed and fed, Lily shed some of her former gloominess and even permitted Melbourne to brush the tangles from her hair. He tried and failed to plait the thick curls, making her laugh with his ineptness.

 _"Lehzen_ knows, Papa. Let _her_ do it." That she would call for Victoria's old nurse, who no longer directly served in the royal nurseries, told him more than her tears how she longed for her mother.

"Darling, Baroness Lehzen did not travel with is. She is not young anymore, and asked to stay behind. Besides, if she was with us, who would care for the pets?"

They had taken two dogs, of the half-dozen who shared Palace quarters, while monkey and parrots remained in London.

"Mama…Lehzen…our soldier…" Lily recounted, her voice trembling. "Who will take care of us if _you_ leave, Papa?"

"I will not leave you, sweetheart."

"But if you _do_? What if – what if you get sick, or break your leg or –" Melbourne, seeing her spiraling panic, swept her into his arms. Liam's eyes were wide with alarm and his lower lip trembled, and he came willingly into his father's embrace.

When they'd calmed sufficiently to attend him, Melbourne kissed each of the children in turn.

"We will leave for London tomorrow. Lehzen awaits us at Windsor, where Mama will come the instant she steps foot on dry land."

♛

"Do you think it spells trouble?" The Countess of Enniskillen queried her hostess, as her gaze followed the tall, distinguished figure so familiar to everyone present but most particularly, ladies of a certain age.

"I do _not_ ," Lady Rutland answered most emphatically. "She's on Royal business, need I remind you? And _he_ has always only had his heart set on a single woman. William Lamb is a romantic."

Recalling the young man with whom she'd danced and flirted, so charming in his polite disinterest, with eyes only for Caro Ponsonby, Elizabeth, Lady Rutland sighed. She had settled for the heir to the 5th Duke, encouraged by her father, the Earl of Carlisle, but would have cast it all away for the younger Lamb son. Then, his elder brother was the 1st Viscount's heir and William Lamb had no prospects save those offered by a career in law or politics.

"Single?" The woman beside her arched a brow skeptically. "There have been rumors – I don't care to say – but I've never heard William Lamb's name uttered in the same breath as an accusation of marital fidelity."

"If you know he cheated on Caroline, then you know more than I. Pray enlighten me."

"If not during his marriage, then during the separation that followed – that Irish minister's wife – and later –"

Lady Rutland sniffed. "Those were affairs, no more. Every man has his mistresses, but William's heart – no, they did not touch his heart. Only Caro and now Queen Victoria."

"Very well, my dear, have it your way. But he is a remarkably handsome man, and it would take no more than a glance to fill his bed."

"Jane! My dear, need I remind you, of the duty due one's station? No lady speaks as coarsely as that, but since you do, I can assure you dear William is no sybarite in matters of…er, the flesh."

Despite Lady Rutland's insistence it was not a _ball_ , the atmosphere was pleasantly charged when he stepped within. A handful of couples in evening clothes swirled around the floor to the music of a small orchestra and easily twice their number filled the chairs set along each wall. French doors had been thrown open to bring in fresh air and the heady perfume of magnolias in full bloom. The scent and the flamboyance of their blossoms decided him then and there, to obtain mature cultivars for Brocket Hall. A pocket garden, he decided, a small secret plot where he and Victoria could enjoy the night air.

His arrival was not announced, as it would have been if he'd entered with Victoria. It was an unavoidable fact, that no hostess would forfeit such an opportunity to lend consequence to any gathering which the Queen deigned to attend. Without her at his side, he was simply Melbourne, a state of affairs he vastly preferred. One more compromise – not that he begrudged it – but an adjustment all the same.

Melbourne paused to savor the sight, sound and even scent of an adult gathering. Crystal candelabra and twinkle lights sparkling in trees, the leaves of which had been sprinkled by Lord Belvoir's gardeners to reflect pinpoint flames. The mathematical precision of a Bach sonata counterpoint to elegantly measured voices engaged in clever conversation. Fragrance of powdered and tastefully painted ladies, in their silk gowns. Everything orderly and refined, entirely to his taste. That notion in turn made his lips twitch, thinking what his life had become. It was not necessary or even common, for one of his class and station, to be so thoroughly immersed in the upbringing of children but he would not have it any other way. _Still_ , he admitted, _it's pleasant to be in company again, and without the necessary pomp and circumstance that accompanies a royal visit._ He could just be Melbourne, better yet, William Lamb, here amongst his peers.

Melbourne took the champagne on offer and made his way around the room, determined to enjoy himself for an evening.

"I meant it, when I said we were honored by your presence." Melbourne, startled out of reverie, glanced down at Lady Rutland from his much-greater height. He decided such gratuitous flattery was best left unanswered.

"You've managed to assemble a surprising number of guests, for the season," he said instead.

"Everyone's on their way somewhere," Lady Rutland responded with a shrug. "And the midlands make a stopping-off point. Not everyone travels on their own railroad."

"A prerequisite, for the children's comfort and security."

"Ah, the Royal children." Lady Rutland lifted her champagne flute in what might have been a toast. "I am charmed, to be sure, and that is _not_ sycophancy. Most people's children are dead bores, and most _royal_ children in my experience are dead bores and obnoxious as well. Yours – the Queen's, I should say – are delightful. The little girl is a minx, but so very well spoken. And determined. You and the Queen will have your hands full, trying to marry her off to some foreign prince."

"I believe that is a compliment…?" Melbourne queried doubtfully.

"It is. If I didn't mean it I'd say nothing at all." She sipped delicately, from the glass still held aloft. "And you yourself, I need not ask how you do. We see less and less of you in Society, so that I think it comes as a surprise when we do, how very little you've changed."

"I am quite busy with those little jobs which come my way. They may not account for much in the grand scheme of things, but I hope I contribute something."

"You contribute a great deal, I am sure," Lady Rutland replied, sounding doubtful. "But be that as it may, I'm sure we all have you to thank, for the model ruler the Queen has become. The country might have gone in either direction, but no one disputes we were ready for a change. The House of Hanover had quite worn out its welcome, with a succession of…shall we say, less than inspiring leaders? Her Majesty is a breath of fresh air, and none of us who know you can doubt your influence in her shaping."

"The Queen is not led by anyone. She is her own person, and knows her own mind."

"That's all well and good, but how she conveys the content of that mind – I won't compare her to her predecessors - well, you must know what I mean. Goodness, William Lamb, you still have not learned to accept sincere compliments."

"I confess, it is not entirely comfortable, to hear myself the topic of conversation."

"William – Your Grace –" Lady Rutland tapped Melbourne's chin with her fan in a coy, playful gesture. "False modesty is a vice. You look well, as you know. It is unfair that gentlemen do not age as we poor females do. At least, some gentlemen do not. Now I must attend to my other guests. Do try to have a good time."

Melbourne did have a good time, although nothing in particular stood out to make it so. He even forgot to miss Victoria, for a while. He felt more fully himself once more, able to look at the poor love-addled fool who quite nearly fell apart at the prospect of brief absence. On several regretful occasions, he had had tears in his eyes that he was quite sure Victoria saw. _Poor girl, how unfair to saddle her with the weight of my insecurities!_

♛

The inclusion of Belfast in Victoria's progress was the result of miscalculation, or so she had been told by those advisors who recommended avoiding the locale. In the end, she went, journeying across a terrain so beautiful to behold that one could scarcely credit horrific tales of Irish famine victims unburied by the roadside.

Lord Londonderry, a prominent local magnate, offered his own coach and accommodations at Mountstewart, his home. Captain Beechey, the famed Arctic explorer who would serve as her guide, suggested bypassing Belfast and taking the railway to Lisburn, where "the great manufactories are situated." He even proposed an alternative visit to Ardoyne, a separate district west of the town.

Lord Clarendon, most attuned to local sensibilities, insisted the Queen must appear in Belfast, for her Irish tour to have any lasting benefit. Victoria, in the end, agreed with his assessment and added the additional days to her itinerary. The royal yacht would meet here there, and her reward for braving what all feared would be an inhospitable place, would be to sail from there straight home. _Home!_ The word thrilled Victoria, even to think it. It did not apply to a place. _Home_ was with William, wherever they were. _Home_ was in her husband's embrace.

The most compelling argument to sway her, was that in the North her popularity would stem from her marriage to Lord Melbourne, whom even the most fiery radicals credited with the Reform Act passed on his watch in 1840, and for steadfastly supporting the tenets of Catholic Emancipation. Victoria had memorized Melbourne's words on that subject, in one of his rare speeches in the House. It was, she believed, one of the most illustrative examples, of his delicate understanding and subtle intelligence, in arguing not for the rights of individuals – a matter disputed by some – but the right of the _State_ to call upon the services of all its subjects.

" _The State is entitled to the services of every one of its subjects. It is not the privileges and advantages of individuals which they must to consider; on the contrary, the privileges of the State, the welfare of the country, and the advantage of the community, are seriously injured by those restrictions…inasmuch as it could not select that person who of all men might be best fitted to perform the duties of office. It is the power of the people which is thereby circumscribed and restricted_." 

The Lord Mayor of Dublin, Timothy O'Brien, was an almost comically vulgar and uneducated little man in Victoria's estimation, and the governing corporation of seemed comprised of the lowest, meanest men imaginable, and the aldermen of Cork were notorious ruffians. How much worse could Belfast be? She could not write those observations and looked forward to sharing them with William in private; whispered conversations with Billy while they travelled from town to town must suffice. Billy, no stranger to Irish customs or the doubtful gentility of its natives, made her giggle uncontrollably with his dry sense of humor and the outrageous deadpan delivery of entirely inappropriate anecdotes on the men – and women – they met.

William Johnson, the mayor of Belfast, seemed a sensible sort, but the appearance of Belfast corporation representatives tried her resolve to avoid Billy's gaze. These men had devised an elaborate costume for the occasion, half naval and half clerical, with white neckties and polished boots at odds with their rough and tumble appearance, red-veined jowls and unwashed hair. One glance in Billy's direction, Victoria knew, would have her erupting in gales of laughter at their ermine-trimmed scarlet robes, worn over bright blue coats heavy with gold braid, and outmoded, powdered wigs from her grandfather's time.

She boarded the royal yacht, waiting in a nearby bay, only so that she might emerge onto the decorated quay in a piece of outdoor theatre. A specially constructed staircase led to a decorated pavilion with raised dais and gold-leafed State chair. There was a momentary awkwardness when the portcullis intended to serve as a gangway was too large for the tender. A hasty platform was put into place, precariously perching on planks. Before Victoria could step foot onto the dangerous contraption she felt herself being lifted bodily. In full view of the 4,000 spectators, Billy carried her safely ashore. Once on _terra firma_ , she climbed the ornamental stairway and was received into Belfast under a triumphal arch.

 _It will make a funny story_ , she told herself, receiving the dignitaries who bowed low before her. _Except I do hope the cartoonists do not publish drawings of me, arriving in Billy's arms._

__


	18. Chapter 18

The final days passed in a blur, once novelty and euphoria faded. Victoria was still hailed wherever she went by Irish subjects who had rediscovered in themselves long-dormant fealty to the Crown. She said all that was proper on each occasion, and missed no opportunity to further cement her government's ties with this wayward and wild nation, but only Billy's irreverent asides and his stolid, supportive presence kept her fatigue in check.

Public unveiling of her own statue, timed to coincide with her announcement of the new Poor Law Amendment Act, marked her last official engagement. Victoria experienced a few qualms beforehand, remembering Melbourne's misgivings. _Such things rarely go as intended_ , he'd warned. Melbourne had advised her _not_ to be the public face of the Act, in the event of unintended consequences. He had once said _leave the poor alone_ ; this was not a repeat of that. He had only warned her that such broad legislation so hastily rushed through the House, might have unintended, unforeseen consequences.

 _The Crown must be apart from Government_ , he'd reminded her, _and the very men who want to use you for this, would be the first to sacrifice you for expediency's sake, if this relief scheme blows up in their face._

When pressed, Victoria decided his misgivings were born only out of an abundance of caution. The Poor Law Amendment Act of 1847 marked a major shift in British government policy with respect to famine distress in Ireland. Under the new act Irish property owners and tenants would henceforth bear the full burden of fiscal responsibility for relief, which was to be administered solely by the Irish poor-law system.

 _Not terribly popular with those landowners,_ Melbourne had quipped. _It's a wonder they've allowed this to pass._

 _They must be made to assume their rightful burden_ , Victoria had answered. _It is only right and fair that._

Another clause which Melbourne had pointed to, was the Gregory clause of the Act. It required that relief applicants surrender all but a quarter acre of their land. _And this, I daresay, will not go down well with small freeholders who have held their parcels together for generations._

But Melbourne had not pressed the issue. As always, he encouraged her to make up her own mind. Victoria, seeing no farther than the prospect of famine relief at no great cost to either Crown or government, found no reason to refuse to speak. And after that… _home_.

♛

Four days remained, after they arrived at Windsor. Melbourne passed the time in a blur of activity, turning the children over to Baroness Lehzen and their grandmother. He exercised his rarely-used prerogative, to summon men to him, rather than travelling the 15 miles to Whitehall.

The Arts Commission sent four of its members, bearing drawings for the layout of their proposed exhibition. Planning had been in the works since shortly after the French Industrial Exposition of 1844. That celebrated event had opened in the Champs-Élysées on 1 May with nearly 4000 exhibits and closed on 29 June. No sooner had it been declared a resounding success, displaying every modern marvel the imagination could produce, than a British society formed to plan their own Exhibition.

Joseph Paxton had designed an architecturally adventurous glass structure, which owed its inspiration to Paxton's experience designing greenhouses for the sixth Duke of Devonshire. A cast iron framework 563 metres by 138 metres would support the soaring roof. Improbable but not impossible, was Melbourne's first thought. Certainly, if they could pull it off, the building they already called The Great Shalimar would be one of the wonders of the modern world.

Paxon was an old friend of Melbourne's – he had played an integral role in rebuilding the Brocket Hall Conservatory – and it was his confidence in the man that ultimately overruled a certain skepticism in the design.

Melbourne summoned Liam from the schoolroom for this meeting, judging it the most likely to interest a small boy. He was intrigued by the miniature buildings, most particularly by the palm trees soaring to four-inch scale model height inside the sugar "glass" domes, and politely questioned the means by which it was accomplished. Small carved elephants, striped tents with gay flags displayed, even a credible approximation of brilliant green turf, all guaranteed to fascinate a child.

As much as he enjoyed the boy's company, it was not for pleasure alone that Prince William of Wales was present. Melbourne acquitted himself of any temporal ambition, but if shaping the character of his son was the highest duty a man could be called upon to perform, then how much more so, to do the same for a future King?

Melbourne disavowed most attempts to credit him with the making of the Queen. Victoria had, at their first official meeting, been entirely formed, seeming larger than life by the very strength of her distinct personality. What he had done, instinctively and without calculation, had been to quietly reinforce her belief in herself. Remembering all the times her gaze would find his across a crowded room, recalling how much strength she would draw from the merest lift of his chin, made Melbourne think perhaps his life was not wasted.

If he could do the same now, with this sweet child, if he could bring Liam into public life in a measured, judicious way, then unlike Princess Alexandrina Victoria, hidden away at Kensington, the future King might develop a natural poise and confidence to compensate for his shyness and reserve.

Unspoken but never forgotten, was the knowledge that he himself would not be alive to guide the future King, he must do what he could for the Prince.

Other meetings in Melbourne's diary, scheduled by one or the other of his secretaries, were not nearly as amusing. Most of these involved no more than the appearance of listening, nodding sagely and uttering some banal response. He attended more closely to some than others, noting where some complication was likely to result. These eventually filled a whole sheet covered with his large angular scrawl. Even that warmed him, thinking of the coziness of their working sessions, when the Queen sat at her desk and he at his. Four days, then three, then two…Melbourne resisted the temptation to dwell on the precise timing of her return.

What news arrived from Ireland, borne by travelers and the messenger clerks who went back and forth from Dublin Castle to Whitehall regularly, was all extremely promising. When some tidbit reached Melbourne's ears, there was always that split second when a lump rose in his throat, when all he could hear was the pounding of his heart. _She is well, if not safe on Irish soil_ , was all he cared to know. The rest Victoria would tell him herself, and he had no wish to spoil her pleasure in the telling.

♛

And just like that it was done, their time apart. Melbourne was riding through the Great Park, intent on taking the Queen's mare through her paces. A fortunate chance had put Adagio in his gift, and Victoria adored her great mare. Melbourne resolved to commission a portrait of the Queen on horseback and knew just the artist he would choose. He marveled as always, at the horse's gentle responsiveness, guided by the merest touch at the reins.

Melbourne, like most male riders, was accustomed to using the pressure of his thighs, but Adagio was a woman's horse and no side saddle gave its rider the same means of control. The need to depend solely on reins without tugging at the bit required a certain concentration, and so Melbourne paid no attention to traffic on the Windsor approach until a flash of light caught his eye.

He was far down the path to the rear of the castle, nearly at the beginning of old-growth forest, and acres of lawn and buildings between them should have made it impossible to see. Yet he _knew_ , with unerring certainty, only later deciding it must have been the late-afternoon sun reflected in the golden crest on the door, that the dot in the far distance was Victoria’s coach. Moments later, Adagio already turned and stretching out her long legs in flight, the red and blue coats of outriders confirmed what instinct already told him.

Without thinking, Melbourne gave the mare her head and the two of them sent gravel flying. If the silvery-white horse was not immediately recognizable, someone would have stopped a rider going so fast on the sedate grounds of the Castle.

Her brilliant smile was reward enough, when they reached her. Melbourne reined in and the horse slowed to a walk. Victoria rapped a gloved hand sharply and asked the driver to stop. A postillion barely had time to place the step, before she jumped impetuously down. Melbourne dismounted and, still holding the reins, stared into her face. They could not, of course, touch, out there in full view of the world. But they did not need to; that long beat of time, when they searched out and found what they needed was enough.

Accompanying Victoria to the children's wing and then watching her tenderly greet son and daughter, all the while cradling Freddy in her arms; listening to her pretty attentiveness to her ladies, dismissing Lady Douro and Lady Canning with thanks for their attentions on her travel, welcoming those who would take their place on the schedule; even courteously assuring her own secretary and clerks that she would be at her desk promptly at 9 the next morning, Melbourne was not jealous of her time. They never touched, but that little _frisson_ of awareness linked them body and soul. He was perfectly content to watch and admire, knowing their time would come. Only once, Victoria stopped short in an anteroom. She stood as closely as she dared, and turned her face up to his with an expression so _hungry_ that it was all Melbourne could do not to kiss her then and there. Instead, his hands went of their own accord to her waist and rested lightly on the dark travel costume she still wore. He lowered his head, stopping short of her lips, and inhaled her sweet breath.

They dined with her ladies and his gentlemen in waiting, her mother and several elderly aunts. Rather than one of the more formidable State dining rooms, a round table in an adjoining chamber was used instead.

Melbourne found himself uncharacteristically devoid of small-talk at table, wanting only to listen and watch. He was suddenly aware of overwhelming fatigue, the release of ten days' unrelenting tension he had scarcely recognized at the time. Victoria chatted, describing the handsome native Irish women and the overall foreign appearance of that land. The 2nd Baron Forester, a gentleman in waiting whose tenure was a holdover from Tory rule, had lately resumed his official appointment, settling in when they moved to Windsor. Forester ably entertained the elderly ladies who variously occupied grace-and-favor apartments, and whose conversation was handicapped by deafness and genteel confusion.

The Queen's apartment at Windsor was naturally immaculate, every fixture polished, the rugs swept, and fresh beeswax candles lit in place of the gas lamps Victoria detested. Yet, Melbourne thought, it was redolent of _waiting_ , as unused spaces intended for human habitation are prone to be.

Skerrett, knowing Victoria's fondness for bathing, had the copper tub filled. Melbourne had not stepped foot in these apartments while the Queen was absent, feeling himself an interloper in some sacred space. He slept, bathed and change in his old small suite, and only with Victoria stepped into her chamber.

Melbourne's own valet undressed him in silence, holding out the paisley dressing gown that followed him from place to place. Baines, with the sleight-of-hand efficiency, even brought over the book he'd been reading, and it now lay face-down on the table beside their big bed.

Feeling as gauche as a green boy, Melbourne waited. This sense of disorientation still came at odd moments – _I am in the_ **Queen's** _bedchamber!_ **I** _am in the Queen's bedchamber! I am in the Queen's_ **bedchamber**! – and all the old feelings of reverent disbelief froze him in place until Victoria came in like a little whirlwind.

"Oh, William, it is so good to be home!" she exclaimed, making a small sound that was somewhere between whimper and groan. Without waiting for an invitation, she flung herself into his arms.

His body responded to her nearness, to the softness and yielding warmth of the young body pressing against his own. Just like that, all displacement fled, and he was entirely present to the miracle taking place.

"Your Majesty," he murmured. The old honorific was playful, and Victoria responded in kind.

"Lord M."

Victoria shed the gossamer garment which barely clung to her shoulders, and in a sheer gown of some pale hue the contours of her body were clearly visible. Melbourne wondered where a gently-reared girl had found such a revealing nightdress and asked, making his appreciation plain.

Their lovemaking was at first hesitant, Melbourne wanting to savor every instant of rediscovery. They found their old rythms, the giving and taking in equal measure, and the sweetness of familarity made him ache with pleasure. Not for the first time he could only wonder at men who sought novelty in such things. For him, always, far greater satisfaction was found in the comfort of perfect communion.

"I brought some of the Dublin papers. The coverage was almost entirely complimentary." Victoria spoke in the darkness, while Melbourne was still catching his breath.

"They describe my arrival, and the Lord Mayor's reception in Belfast. Some of the images are quite droll – why, I scarcely recognize myself! Oh, and one, more foolish than most, depicts the great flowered arch they assembled. And another – well, it was the fault of poor planning – my near-dunking in the sea. Quite an undignified sketch, little better than a lampoon in one of those horrid pamphlets – although it might have been worse. Can you imagine if I had to be fished out of the sea, dripping wet?"

Melbourne smiled as he listened to her girlish chatter. When she finished, he smoothed back the hair from her face.

"I will view them all with pleasure, my dear, and look forward to your telling me of your impressions. So long as you are home safe and consider this tour a success, I am happy. Oh, and I daresay you are right – it was most fortunate the intrepid Lord Cameron was there to save you from splashing into the water. You looked every inch a Queen and your dignity was undiminished, even carried ashore in his arms."

Melbourne sensed a ripple of tension go through her, and almost regretted his teasing. Of course she would feel chagrin for his sake, not yet having inured herself to the slurs and slanders of the gutter press.

"Sweetheart, you can't imagine I would be upset? In fact, the cartoonist's pen made you look rather ravishing."

"Rather _wanton_ , I would say rather," Victoria huffed. She sat up and groped for her recently discarded gown. "Still, it is you they mock in those insufferable scandal sheets, implying that – well, that –"

"That I am at risk of being cuckolded again? It would not be the first time I am the butt of their humor, nor do I suppose it will be the last. But you, ma'am – you didn't think I would know better?"

"You are certain you don't mind?" Victoria looked so puzzled and doubtful that Melbourne understood her vanity was wounded.

"I am certain that there is nothing to warrant such a frown on your lovely face. Of course I am a little jealous, that another man covets my treasure. But only a _very_ little, because I know your heart, and Billy's as well if it comes to that."

Melbourne chucked her under the chin and then leaned forward to kiss her lips.

"Sweetheart, I promise you, his presence of mind caused me no more concern, than you should feel when I tell you about the delightful young woman I met."

Any small wound to his male vanity was assuaged by the instant jealousy Victoria displayed. Melbourne continued blithely to tell her about their sister-in-law's school friend and the clever drawings she made.

"I thought we might give her a commission. She has not yet sold any of her work. A portrait of you on Adagio, outfitted for riding in a smart habit and surrounded by your dogs. Our patronage might be the boost she needs, to draw the attention her talent merits."

"To pose for such a painting, your new protégé would have to remain in residence for weeks, even months. I thought you said she must return to her home, at the end of her visit with Adine."

"I'm sure she could be prevailed upon to extend her visit. Let Weld-Forester squire her about. We could invite Fred and Adine as well. What do you say? They could accompany us to the Continent in August. Your uncle is always clamoring for you to visit."

"Belgium, possibly France if the political climate allows. I am certainly not traveling farther east than that."

Victoria had no inclination to visit any of the Germanic principalities that boasted of their connection to the British crown, but Melbourne suspected her declaration just then had more to do with the artist's place of origin than any political consideration.

Victoria's prickly possessiveness was as gratifying as it was touching, if taken in moderation. He said as much.

"You are _mine_ , Lord Melbourne, do not forget it. Perhaps I should demand another sort of painting altogether. One for only you to see."

"Is that a 'yes' to my suggestion then?" Melbourne grinned and pulled her into his arms.

"My precious girl, your pique is balm to an old man's pride but of course you know in here –" he laid his palm over her heart. "- that I have no interest in pursuing any serious flirtation, even if one looked me right in the face. It can be amusing to exchange words in company, and natural to admire a good figure or fine pair of eyes. But I have always found happiness in tranquility."

Victoria settled herself against him. Her little movements were familiar and predictable, the way she prepared for sleep each night. Cold feet finding warmth between his calves, the jut of her backside, the motion of her head settling into goosedown pillow – all the small intimacies of two people who shared a bed and in it, their vulnerabilities and foibles. Things only _he_ knew. Neither mother or nurse, certainly no other man alive, saw the tiny motions he had etched in his mind.

Melbourne mulled over his last words. They had been neither calculated nor profound, merely the murmured ramblings that came after lovemaking and before the onset of sleep. He realized they held more truth than he'd intended. His confession was one Caro had never understood, thriving on constant turmoil as she did. What he now shared with Victoria _was_ the essence of happiness because at its core was tranquility. Early on, no one could have predicted from the subterfuge and emotional torment that they would find their way to this peaceful path.

He huffed and cleared his throat, then turned halfway onto his side. Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, Victoria's dark head under his chin and her curves filling in his hollow places.

"Good night, Victoria," he whispered.

"Good night, Lord M," she replied.


	19. Chapter 19

"Oh, dear." Victoria sighed deeply, and ran the back of her hand across her brow in a gesture of weary frustration. She slid a sheet of paper across the narrow gap between their two desks, careful to keep the tip of her finger pointed at a familiar name.

The draperies had been flung open, allowing sunshine to spill across the floor of their working office. Each morning they arrived together and worked steadily at their facing desks. Tea and biscuits provided a much-needed respite, but today Victoria was restless and chafing at the workload and confinement.

"Harry again?" Lord Melbourne's voice cracked from disuse, and he cleared his throat before continuing. "What has he done now?"

"Truthfully, I don't yet know. Only, his name jumps out at me and I fear what new trouble he's caused."

Her words might have been harsh, if her tone had not softened them. She was genuinely fond of Henry Temple, the man; he and Melbourne's sister doted on one another, and to her, he had long been an amusing companion to dance or ride out with.

Victoria would never forget those heady early months of her reign, when a glittering new world had been unveiled, full of amusement and wonder. Viscount Palmerston, as she had primly called him then, was one of her most frequent companions and along with Lord M, accompanied her on horseback by day, then dined at the Palace most nights and stayed late to vie for her attention. His presence was enjoyable in its own right, and invaluable for the scrutiny it otherwise deflected from those quick to criticize her partiality for the company of Lord Melbourne.

And then, later, when matters unfolded as they did – as they _must_ , Victoria was quick to add – Lord Palmerston was a staunch friend to both of them, acknowledging the truth with a bawdy wink and grin.

Palmerston had no legitimate children, and like many men who remained bachelors long after their contemporaries produced heirs, he doted on Prince William and Princess Elizabeth as much as he did Emily's own grandchildren. He was a much-loved uncle who was never so concerned with his own dignity he could not get down on the floor to roughhouse, whose handsome ruddy face was wreathed in smiles whenever he watched them gleefully unwrap some cunning new toy he'd found time to procure.

Victoria had reveled in the comforting familiarity of her own bed, and the presence of her husband in that bed. _One should travel regularly, to better appreciate one's home and the simple pleasures of domestic life_ , she had written in her journal just that morning.

On the other hand, just over a week away meant that not one or two, but _four_ dispatch boxes awaited her attention in addition to the new ones which arrived every day since her return. Melbourne had begun the process of sorting through their contents, in the few days he'd been at Windsor before her return. There were the documents requiring her signature, no more – military appointments, for the most part. Anything which required more than a signature, particular acts of valor for which an elevation in rank was awarded, posthumous medals, or just an inadvertently amusing anecdote used to justify a promotion, Melbourne had sorted out. Terse notes in the angular scrawling hand which she knew as well as her own were clipped to the top of these.

What remained, in addition to the voluminous correspondence the Queen of England must maintain with her counterparts abroad, were a few thicker papers, some of them still sealed with red wax and the stamp of whomever intended them for her eyes only. It was a ridiculous extra step, for surely none of their authors imagined she did not share everything with her husband? Or that her secretaries and clerks could not be trusted to respect the confidentiality of all matters to which they were privy?

Victoria shared her thoughts as she picked at a fragment of sealing wax.

"Well, perhaps not the latter, much as we'd like to think otherwise," Melbourne said. "I am not one to protest, my dear. When I was in office, every line I wrote was read a dozen times before it reached the intended recipient and I have no reason to think that anything's changed? Why do you think I myself brought your boxes?"

"Because you desired to be in my presence?" Victoria teased. "Except when you would not see me at all. Then you sent Will in your place, and thought I would not object."

Will Cowper, his nephew and Emily's son, had served as a secretary in the Treasury office. During those dark weeks after her marriage to Albert, when Melbourne had stayed away, pleading the demands of duty, Will had come in his place.

She turned her attention to the letter Melbourne now held. "Can you make sense of it all?

"Henry is only tangentially involved. A Mr. Harney seems to be stirring up trouble. About the placement of Wellington's statute, of all things."

Victoria frowned. "I couldn't make heads or tails of it. The Duke's statute must be moved for practical reasons, or it must stay in its place – I'm not sure which – and Mr. Harney intends to address the electors of Tiverton…oh, do read it through and tell me what it means."

"Harney? There was a radical named George Harney, an _enfant terrible_ ," Melbourne said, thinking aloud. "In '37 he tried to whip up support for a general strike, in hopes of advancing the cause of universal suffrage. I believe from there he established an alliance with the Chartists, but he was too hot-headed to get along there either. I'd thought we heard the last of him when he departed for Scotland. O'Connor took him up, and gave him a post on his newspaper."

Melbourne scanned the lines Victoria had given him one more time.

"I believe the gist of this is, Harney claims it is a reproach to the Government, that the Wellington statute is not taken down. Henry refutes that ludicrous claim by reminding him that the statute is not the property of the Government. He is quite right – it was provided by private subscription on the part of many persons both civil and military who were anxious to memorialize the service of the illustrious duke. It's placement on the arch was purely experimental, however. I was one of the few who objected to its being placed at the corner of Hyde Park. Now it seems…"

Victoria tried without success to follow the convoluted story Melbourne told. To be fair, she reflected, it is not _his_ story to tell. If it was, he would make it more interesting. The sound of that wonderful voice, gruff, slightly raspy, all its inflections music to her ears, was enough to hold her attention. His hair was long again, she noticed, and the silver was especially attractive in contrast to the summer color in his face. One long corkscrew curl hung over his forehead, nearly to his eyes, and errant strands were swept forward against his cheeks. Strong nose, finely drawn lips and those beautiful grey eyes –

"If you look at me like that, Mr. Harney cannot hope to compete. Now, do you want me to finish or not?"

"Not," Victoria laughed, getting up to go to him. She leaned over his shoulder, arms around his neck, and began kissing him lightly on the tip of one ear, his cheek, his neck.

"You look very pretty today," he growled. "So I cannot be angry at your frivolity. That is a pretty frock you have on."

Victoria glanced down at the pink and white striped muslin. A starched white linen collar and cuffs did their best to lend an air of sobriety, but the net effect was festive and summery, suitable for a garden party or a walk in the park.

"I'm glad you think so. It's not too girlish, you don't think? I am a matron now, not a miss in her first season."

She felt his broad shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"You are a girl, my girl, my precious girl, and you must dress the part. Look, those peonies are the same shade as your gown." Victoria followed in the direction he pointed. The windows were flung open to admit a breeze, and they could see down to one of the flower beds adjoining the quadrangle.

"Tell me what I must say to Mr. Harney, who sounds like a very tedious and unpleasant man. And then let us go outside. We can take luncheon on the Terrace and walk for a while."

"I suggest you say nothing. Pass this off to one of the clerks, to send one of those noncommittal responses that say nothing whatsoever. Let's have Arthur and Henry both out to find out what's really at the root of this kerfuffle."

"We can invite them to dine and spend the night," Victoria said brightly. "Emily too, of course. And – oh, it's too bad Lady Douro went north. She is so very fond of him, much more so than either of them like Lord Douro. I want to hear for myself, what dear Lord Wellington thinks of it. My fondness for him is well known, and it will not suit me to have anything done which insults the great service he has done for our country."

The sun was bright overhead and Victoria briefly wished she had called for a parasol. She was not prone to spots or freckles, thank goodness, but in their place her skin had an unfortunate tendency to darken in summer. Dismissing such a vain concern, she caught Melbourne's hand and held it, swinging their arms vigorously as they walked. It was a childishly exuberant gesture, lacking in the dignity of proper deportment, and Victoria did not care. Only when they rounded a corner and came upon others taking advantage of the weather to exercise, did she sheepishly drop his hand and lay her lace-mittened hand on his arm instead.

"Tomorrow I will ride into town," Melbourne said. "I will attend a banquet at the Naval College. It seems as good a time as any to persuade more subscribers to invest in the Great Exposition scheme."

Melbourne, like most gentlemen of rank, was a member of various Committees and Commissions that for the most part aligned with his interests. He belonged to the Royal Fine Arts Commission, the Royal Horticultural Society, and was a founding member of the Royal Society of Literature, founded in 1820 to 'reward literary merit and excite literary talent’.

The Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce had existed for nearly a hundred years without attracting significant interest, save for those few aristocrats known for eccentricity. The very name hinted at factories and foundries, of men who made their fortunes in manufacturing and trade. Melbourne had been invited to join their ranks as Royal patron at the same time they petitioned for their charter. George Von Wettin, the late Prince Consort's very good friend, had been the intermediary chosen to lobby on their behalf.

"They want money, I assume," had been Melbourne's only comment. He would not refuse George, nor would Victoria – their ties went too far back – and George rarely imposed, never on his own behalf. He was eloquent and enthusiastic, in describing the great project ahead. A Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, he had called it in ringing tones, to make "clear to the world England's role as industrial leader."

George was by nature restrained, and no user of superlatives. Victoria was enthralled, Melbourne amused, and neither had the will to refuse him.

"Ten thousand pounds?" Victoria said now, in awed tones.

"That's the amount they want each of us to commit. The more patrons I can persuade or influence, the less I myself must lay out but yes, ten thousand is the minimum."

Victoria wondered how to respond. Money was one of the few subjects she approached with caution, where Melbourne was concerned. Victoria rarely considered money, and had no real idea of the size of his fortune, except to understand that he expressed concerns from time to time, yet refused to accept even a modest marriage settlement. Leopold still collected the £50,000 annual pension settled on him at his marriage to Charlotte, thirty years after her death. Albert had been awarded the comparatively modest sum of £30,000 a year, which was increased by £10,000 after the birth of each Royal child.

William had stubbornly refused anything beyond his modest pension after retiring from Government service, even after their marriage was made known. Little over a year before, he had relented and accepted an insultingly meagre £10,000 in income from the properties which went with his Dukedom. Most of that, Victoria knew, went to the upkeep of his estates. She had insisted only once, to demand that she be permitted to contribute to dear Brocket Hall. The improvements made _there_ directly benefited herself and the children and she could never feel it was truly her home unless she was allowed to use her own funds as any Lady Melbourne would.

"Go ahead and ask, sweetheart," he said, interrupting her thoughts. Victoria was relieved to hear that he sounded quite normal, without that awful awkward stiffness behind which he concealed discomfort.

"Can you afford that? May I – what if the Crown underwrites all initial expenses, so there is no need for anyone to invest their personal fortune?"

"It's too late for that," Melbourne responded. "Several bankers and a shipbuilder have already bought into the scheme. Henry Cole has been busy, and quite persuasive. And yes, to answer you, I suppose I can, since I must. I'll see my man of business this afternoon and sell whatever stocks he recommends."

"William, I do wish you would let me do more. It's unfair and insulting that you should receive virtually nothing from the Civil List, when Uncle still –"

"Don't compare me to your Uncle, my love. One of the reasons our marriage was accepted so readily, is because it was a bargain compared to anyone else who might have sought your hand. There were more than a few penniless princes who might have filled Albert's shoes. I believe Leopold had one or two on his short list."

"Then surely I have more than enough for us both. Why, your own son has the income from the Duchy of Cornwall, compounding interest until he reaches majority. That could be diverted to you – or the _interest_ on his income, at least."

"Shush, my dear. It's too lovely a day to talk about such unpleasant topics. I am no money-grubber, whatever else anyone might accuse me of. Now, look – here is the source of that arrangement on your desk."

They stopped to admire the peony blooms. Melbourne clipped one with his pen knife and wove the stem into one of the braids coiled over her ear. He might have dared kiss her there in the open, Victoria thought, if they had not been interrupted by a ferocious ruckus in the bushes. A shaggy black dog emerged, all gangly legs and oversized paws. He barreled headlong into Victoria and tangled himself in her skirts. The reason for his panicked flight was soon made clear, when the Queen's little Dachshund followed close on the big dog's heels. The little dog made it plain that he was the aggressor, all bared teeth and low throaty growls. Victoria bent and picked him up and was nearly bit for her trouble.

"Let me take him," Melbourne said, clamping his hands around the squirming sausage-shaped body.

"Who are you, sweetheart?" Victoria crooned, bending to look more closely at the strange animal now cowering at her feet. He was a large breed, she thought, with some shepherd or even wolfhound in the mix. Long tangled hair hung in his eyes and his flanks were covered in matted fur.

"I think he's a stray, William," she said, feeling along his sides for any open wounds. "Why, he's all skin and bones, poor thing."

"No," Melbourne said flatly. "He undoubtedly has fleas and God-knows-what lives in that fur. You can't bring a strange dog inside. Look at the size of him – he'd have this little fellow down in one gulp."

Deckel, as though to reinforce the point, lolled his head against Melbourne's shirtfront, looking entirely harmless and in need of protection.

"A minute ago, Deckel was about to attack and this poor dear boy did nothing to defend himself, only run."

Victoria knew she could prevail, but wisely decided on compromise.

"I'm sure you know best," she said, grinning to show him she meant no such thing. "We'll call for one of the gardener's boys and have him taken to the stables. After a bath and some careful grooming you might change your mind."

♛

"The apprehension of such misconstruction had from the first moment created an anxious wish in my mind that the removal should be so regulated and attended by such circumstance as would tend to relieve the transaction from any impression, such as has now unfortunately been created." The Duke of Wellington spoke in the stilted manner of a previous age, and it quite made Victoria's head ache to listen.

Victoria tilted her head in what she hoped was a sufficiently attentive expression. She widened her eyes and let her lashes flutter, to quite satisfactory effect. She admired the old Duke greatly, and did not forget all the times he had stood between Melbourne and those who sought to dislodge him from his place at her side. Wellington was quite old now, in appearance as well as in fact, and that might account for the inordinate importance he seemed to place on such a trivial matter.

"Ma'am, I am quite anxious to reassure you that no such thought entered my mind."

"Good!" she exclaimed, taking his arm so that he might escort her into dinner.

"It would be beneficial if, perhaps, a public statement of support might be made," Wellington continued.

"No statute can _truly_ do you justice, but I will issue an immediate order that this monument should remain in its place." Victoria spoke soothingly, hoping to smooth Wellington's ruffled feathers. How foolish and unbecoming vanity is, in such a once-great man, she thought sadly.

"I am sorry that Lord Palmerston was caught up in this matter. Surely he cannot have –"

"He involved himself by choice, ma'am, I am sorry to say, as Mr. Harney will attest. Perhaps if Lord Palmerston paid closer attention to the myriad duties of the Foreign Office, he would not find himself with so much time on his hands that he must…"

Victoria nodded at intervals and was glad when etiquette dictated she must turn to the gentleman on her other side. It was a relief to discuss nothing touchier than the runners at next weekend's Ascot Races. When she was forced to turn her attention back to Wellington, he brought up a surprising topic.

"Receive Mr. Harney? I – I believe such a request should come from Lord John's office, or at least, the Head of the Opposition."

"I am not acting in any official capacity, ma'am. And certainly the man is no protégé of mine. But 'know your enemy' is as wise a dictum in politics as it is in battle, and men like Harney are the future I fear."

"What on earth would we talk about? He is a Radical, I believe, and thinks the Monarchy should fall. With that as a starting point, what could we say?"

"Listen to him? Show him you are not afraid to meet with him face-to-face. I know you have the courage for it, ma'am. As for the rest, let Melbourne take the lead. Nobody can give a better impression of hearing a man out without commitment. He might even persuade him to put up his sword."

Victoria paused, knowing she must not decide rashly. Grant an audience to one of those horrid revolutionaries who sought to overturn the existing order? Who did not accept that she was anointed by God and called upon to devote her life to His service? Who did not even accept there was a God?

"I can't answer now, I must consider."

"Perhaps not a formal audience, where both you and he have parts to play? What if he were to be introduced to you at Ascot, as so many are when you're in the Royal Box?"

Victoria did not respond, only changed the subject once more. The old man was distracted by mention of his daughter-in-law, who had accompanied Victoria to Ireland.

♛

"I think you might not have a choice," Melbourne said. He stepped out of his trousers, stood in his shirt with chin raised so he could loosen his collar.

"You're probably right. I had a sense the Duke was warning me, rather. In that case there's not much we can do to prepare. Harney has the favor of his constituency to consider, and will hardly try to savage me in such a public place."

"He will harangue you, I'm sure. Men like him do not have conversations, they speechify instead. Anything he says will be to impress his followers. As a woman, you have some protection. He's no gentleman but he's a flesh-and-blood man. If anyone is going to be hit with rotten tomatoes, it'll be me, no doubt."

Victoria's eyes flashed angrily at the idea, but allowed herself to be reassured by the thought of Billy's stalwart protectors. If only Billy – but she stopped herself. He had alluded more than once to his intention to let others take over that job. He wanted to devote his full attention to the gathering of intelligence, of actually directing the agency he had helped to create.

"Well, then, if there's nothing to be decided, I will put it out of my mind. But if anyone _dares_ throw _anything_ at you, I will have them sent to the Tower."


	20. Chapter 20

Melbourne wanted to get an early start riding out. The Royal Ascot races would commence the following day. At 2pm sharp, each of the five days would begin with the Royal Procession - the arrival of The Queen and the Royal party in horse-drawn landaus, which would parade along the track in front of the racegoers.

On this, the final day before the annual tradition commenced, the viewing stands would be empty but behind the scenes, in the stables and on the Heath, in coffee shops and rented lodgings all over the town of Ascot, horses and their human accoutrements, jockeys and trainers, would be bought and sold, stud fees would be negotiated and bloodlines pored over.

Melbourne was not averse to the prospect of a gentleman's outing, circumventing the pomp and circumstance he must endure for the rest of the week. He anticipated no more than a day's pleasant diversion, but harbored some hope he might find just the right potential mate for Victoria's mare. Victoria had never outgrown a girl's horse-mad obsession, and she knew every one of the animals in her stable. She had recently formed the intention of starting a line of greys from her silver mare, if a stud could be found that was worthy of the task.

Tattersall's was the year-round destination for gentlemen to buy and sell horses, and summer in England meant horse fairs that attracted a rowdier, less well-heeled crowd. Adagio, Victoria's mare, had been a fortunate acquisition at Newmarket. Her previous owner had been attached to his prize mare, and unwise enough to wager far more than he could hope to cover. Still, only the knowledge that she would carry the Queen had persuaded him to name a price Melbourne could afford. He knew there were long odds against repeating such a coup, and if his interest became known prices would leap exponentially, from the general assumption that along with his Royal Dukedom and long-delayed Garter, the Queen must have settled a vast sum on her second husband. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

She'd still slept soundly, when Melbourne's valet tapped softly on the door. Her eyes opened as he was preparing to rise.

"You're off?" she'd asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"I am," Melbourne had answered in a whisper. He leaned over cup her face in his hand, inhaling the heady fragrance of sleep-warm girl.

He dressed by the light of a single candle, his valet working efficiently to hold out trousers and shirt, knee-high riding boots and a brown riding coat. Birds could be heard chirping outside the windows, greeting the early dawn of June. Melbourne was reminded that the summer solstice would come at the end of those five days at Ascot, just in time for them to spend the longest day of the year at Brocket Hall.

Accompanied by his gentleman-in-waiting and a single equerry, Melbourne deviated from the expected route, sending his companions ahead. He strode down a long central corridor that bisected the private apartments and entered the children's suite.

It was a habit of such longstanding that he gave it no thought; any departure must begin with a look in on the children. All three were asleep, Freddy in his cot and Lily in a small canopied bed. Liam, as befitting a boy of schoolroom age, slept alone in his own bedchamber. It was no longer considered proper, for a breeched boy of his rank to share a room his younger siblings. Melbourne had resisted, scoffing at such rigidity, but it was a battle he'd been destined to lose.

He kissed his fingertips and laid them against Freddy's soft pink cheek, then moved to Lily's bed.

She was so rarely still and silent during waking hours, that Melbourne especially cherished any chance to gaze at her unobserved. His heart swelled with emotion and he wondered, not for the first time, at the very special bond between a father and daughter. Men might declare, for the sake of primogeniture, that producing a son was the pinnacle of paternal satisfaction, but Melbourne had long since seen in the males of his acquaintance, how utterly besotted one became with a girl-child.

_Ah, but it's a matter of character and not degree_ , Melbourne rumbled, speaking his thoughts aloud as he so often did. He loved each of these children equally, each in a different way, reflective of their unique character. Liam, for his sweet disposition, Lily for her fire and indomitable spirit. And Freddy – no, it was too soon to say, who he might turn out to be. And yet the love was there, as intense but no stronger for the child he could claim as for these two who carried his blood in their veins but would always be considered another man's progeny.

Melbourne bestirred himself and retreated as soundlessly as a man of his stature could. His horse was saddled and waiting, beside those of the gentlemen who would ride with him. By nine o'clock he was sitting down to breakfast in the company of several contemporaries, 6 miles south of Windsor and 25 miles west of London.

The Battle of Trafalgar having been refought, every engagement of the Peninsular Wars restaged, Melbourne managed to turn the conversation in a direction more to his liking. The unfortunate aspect of any meeting of men who were his own age, was a determination to discuss military matters long since relegated to the history books. Arthur Wellesley must naturally be deferred to on any such subject, and to Melbourne's great relief the Duke showed little inclination to continue in that vein.

"Fanny is back in London and plans to return to the stage," Wellington told the table. "She's left that American fellow and he plans to sue for divorce. I saw her at La Norton's just yesterday evening."

Melbourne's mouth quirked in response. Fanny Kemble, part of a theatre family as celebrated as the Sheridan's, had a love-hate relationship with Caroline Norton. The women were similar in nature, both of them outspoken and not inclined to hold back when they developed strong views. In Caroline's case, it was all about inequities in law and society. She did not espouse the militant feminist views of Mary Wollstonecraft, but neither was she content to accept the status quo when it came to injustices towards women. Fanny, having married a wealthy American plantation owner, promptly set about proclaiming abolitionist views, earning her the scorn of her new husband and their Georgia neighbors. Ironic, he thought, that each of them found me to their liking. Perhaps, he ruefully acknowledged, it was _because_ they found him lacking in the essentially masculine traits they despised. He had no interest in dominating anyone, be it a woman with whom he was on intimate terms, or the meanest constituent. Melbourne's defining attitude was one of letting people and events take their own course, without interference and he knew, for better or worse, it was not liable to change at this late date.

"She asked about you," Wellington said, continuing. "She wondered whether you go out into society."

"'Out into society'?" Melbourne repeated, blinking gently. "Does she imagine I am kept in the Tower? Or perhaps chained in a dungeon at Windsor?"

"Oh come, old fellow, I suspect she hoped for some chance of a tête-à-tête. At the least, the opportunity to greet you as an old friend, without the protocol of Court where, as an actress and divorcée, she can never be received."

"I see," was all Melbourne could say. There was no harm in greeting an old acquaintance, not even one with whom he had been on terms of very close friendship. Victoria would understand that whatever had once been between them it was part of another life. Thankfully she had matured past her early girlish determination to erase all trace of his life before. He wished that their life permitted such easy intercourse; that he and Victoria could entertain friends at a private dinner, without setting the Court and all of the _haut_ _ton_ in a tizzy.

"Send word to Fanny, that she should come to our box at Ascot. We take refreshments at late afternoon and will be able to greet her less formally than when the Queen holds court at Windsor or Buckingham Palace."

The final option, unspoken, was Brocket Hall, but by mutual agreement their country home was rarely used for entertaining. Only a few were privileged to visit there, his family and Victoria's, by invitation only.

Wellington lifted one of his bushy grey brows, and fixed Melbourne with a look that would have made any subaltern tremble.

"And Her little Majesty will be pleased to receive Miss Kemble? Or, Mrs. Butler, I should say?"

"Her Majesty is pleased to meet any old friend I might choose to present."

"Remarkable, Melbourne, simply remarkable. To think that ten years ago I would have predicted our new Queen would be a sober, pious pattern card of propriety."

"You go too far, Arthur," Melbourne retorted, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Her Majesty is, as you well know, a sober and pious young woman. She is no prude or killjoy, and need not make a display of faux virtue to demonstrate her morality."

"A very Catholic disposition, then," Wellington rumbled with laughter.

"Very Church of England, I daresay. Of all the religions, ours meddles the least in private affairs, and demands no sour pinched faces." Melbourne pushed back his chair, and instantly all present were on their feet. Rank, whether or not he liked to admit it, had its advantages.

Walking around the practice ground, where those four-legged showpieces who would not race were put through their paces, Melbourne stopped at one paddock. A promising three-year old, light on its feet, with little more height than a pony but lacking a Shetland's stocky frame, pranced lightly around the ring, guided by the long rope held by a boy at the center.

Melbourne recognized the breed, a Welsh pony, known for their hardy nature and good temperament.

"Look at that fast, free-moving gait, Your Lordship!" A stocky, bow-legged little man came over, doffing his cap and nodding from the neck.

"An excellent prospect for pleasure riding, although I don't say he can't be taught show ring tricks."

"Most of his breed are dark, with the occasional chestnut thrown in. You won't find a palomino often, Your Lordship, nor one as promising as this."

The little horse – he could not have been more than 12 hands – had strong, muscular hindquarters, sloped shoulders and a short back. He also had a pair of large expressive eyes that would be as appealing to a little girl as the high, thick tail waving like a battle flag. A pretty animal with spirit…

Melbourne knew with a sinking feeling that he was going to be swiftly out-maneuvered. The light of avarice already gleamed in the horse-broker's beady eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

"William! She's too young!"

Melbourne lowered himself to the edge of a bureau, bracing himself on both forearms.

"I was four before Mama allowed me to sit on a pony. I was eight before Mama allowed me to hold the reins, and even then a groom walked on each side of me around the ring."

"You were eighteen before you were allowed to walk down the stairs unaided," Melbourne interjected.

"Be that as it may – no four year old can ride without leading reins. You know that's exactly what she will do, if she has a horse of her own."

"Pony. And I only suggest formal lessons commence. After that, well, we'll see how she progresses. Liam had his first horse at four." If you could call that poor sad creature a horse, Melbourne thought, and winced at the memory of his own unkind reaction.

"It's not safe, William. You know Lily will care nothing for any constraint. If she can claim ownership of this animal she will persuade some gullible groom to saddle it for her, and then she will ride out unsupervised."

"What if the pony remains at Brocket? She can't play off her wiles as easily there."

Melbourne heard Victoria's objections, and could not protest on the merits. All he could see in his mind's eye was Lily's joy, overcome at such a long-coveted gift. And he would be the one to give it to her, there was that. She would always remember, and making those memories was a race against time.

Lily had lost interest in any attempt to school her on the proper carriage for a young lady. She refused to ride side-saddle, rejected the docile pony chosen for her by the riding master and scorned the well-worn circle she was expected to travel. She clamored incessantly for a real horse, a horse of her very own and the freedom to ride beyond the exercise ring as her brother now did.

Melbourne had chosen Liam's mount from the Duke of Cleveland's stables, a fine three year-old bay sired by George Bentinck's blood stock. Felis was not Liam's first horse; that honor had been claimed by a spavined pit pony Billy Cameron had found God-knows-where. Yet Liam had loved him on first sight, Melbourne recalled painfully. Both children lavished the sad little creature with love and attention, and even now he lived in luxury as companion to the magnificent Adagio.

But that was then and this was now and he would have the mounting of his own children, thank you very much, Melbourne thought. It was a father's duty and privilege.

"You've already made the arrangements," Victoria said, pursing her lips with displeasure. It was more for show than genuine anger, Melbourne decided, and leaned forward to chuck her under the chin.

"Allow me to do my fatherly duty, my dear. Humor me on this."

Victoria finished her bedtime toilette while Melbourne talked of inconsequentials. He couldn't say why, but observing such small intimate rituals gave him great pleasure. She shook back her hair, scrubbed clean with Denmark lotion and warm water, and delicately dabbed Olympian Dew, otherwise known as Grecian Bloom Water, smoothing it over the plains and contours. Warren and Rosser's Milk of Roses was rubbed onto her décolletage and Eau d'Ange, smelling of oranges, onto the backs of her hands.

Knowing each step by heart, Melbourne rose from his perch to crouch before her. He held out his hand, snapped his fingers imperiously and took her small feet into his lap. She _would_ wear heeled Court shoes, no matter how long she must stand, declaring it impossible to have dignity at only four feet ten inches. By day's end her feet ached. Melbourne ran his thumbs the length of her sole, making gentle circles at each tender point, until she made soft purring moans of pleasure.

When he was done, Melbourne set the lotion aside and stifled his own groan as he struggled to rise. Victoria held out both hands – the thought that she could bear his weight made Melbourne grin – and he managed the maneuver with minimal indignity.

"Mmmm, you smell delicious, Mrs. Melbourne," he crooned, sliding the negligee from her shoulders.

In her bare feet and bare face, pink and shining, Victoria looked like a schoolgirl. The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder, and despite her small stature – or perhaps, to him, because of it - she was altogether desirable. She was his and she was Victoria.

♛

Victoria turned first one way, then another, critically examining her image in the floor-length pier glass. The ensemble was becoming enough, at least when displayed on the dressmaker's dummy. The fabric was shot silk with warp and weft of different shades, so that it subtly changed color according to the light. Palest seafoam green changed to delicate turquoise and then a darker, more saturated hue. The long close-fitting bodice did much to elongate her torso, Victoria noted with satisfaction, and if the voluminous skirts did little to lend an appearance of height, one's eye was drawn upward, past the properly high neck of a day dress to the stylish creation that perched on her head.

The milliner had stiffened a shimmering silk that just matched the darkest stripes of her gown and designed a top hat modelled on those gentlemen wore. One side up of the brim turned up and one down, giving the wearer a rakish air. Dyed ostrich plumes shimmied gently each time she moved her head. She could never entirely feel at ease with her appearance – she knew her features were plain, even forgettable if not for her rank, and her unfortunate lack of inches compelled eternal vigilance against weight gain. But for today, she decided, it would do; she looked well enough.

"William?" Victoria called out, so that he would join her.

 _He_ was her true reflection, his opinion the only one that mattered. More than any expressed opinion – Victoria knew that both affection and Melbourne's essential kindness meant he was predisposed incapable of criticism– but that other barometer of feminine appeal, that ruthlessly honest physical response, would always provide the reassurance she craved.

Melbourne's race day attire differed little from his everyday costume. A simple black broadcloth frock coat molded perfectly to his physique and close-fitting buff trousers were enlivened by a champagne-colored watered silk waistcoat over pristine white linen shirt.

Victoria waited, holding her breath, as he looked her over.

"Madame, you will outshine everyone present," he said finally. "Am I truly privileged to be the man who accompanies this beautiful creature?"

Victoria saw the warmth in his eyes; laughter too, for he was teasing, of course, but that was fine with her.

"Wait…one tiny gesture, so that I might be marked as your companion…" he reached to pluck just one of the vivid blue-green feathers from her own hat and tucked it into the band of his own.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm and Victoria laid her hand on his sleeve.

They did not go directly down; first they went to the schoolroom.

The nursery maids had all 3 children dressed to go out, two footmen held the dogs' leashes, and Liam's monkey chattered excitedly at the prospect of an outing.

Victoria surveyed the little party, her eyes going from one of her children to another, marveling. What a handsome family we've made!

Prince William in his little sailor suit, white trousers and blouse with nautical braid, and Princess Elizabeth looking the very picture of propriety, tidy in a freshly pressed gown with immaculate lace-trimmed pantalettes peeking out under the hem. Freddy was held in a nurse's arms, and his finely-embroidered white cotton gown did little to hamper the pinwheeling movement of his chubby arms. Victoria had given little thought to the matter, accepting whatever his caretakers deemed correct, but at Melbourne's prompting all swaddling had been eliminated to allow him freedom of movement.

Papa Mama Papa Mama, Lily sang. "What will you bring me from the fair?"

Victoria's eyebrows went up in surprise. "We are attending the Ascot races, my dear."

"Rosalie said you're going to a fair!" Lily stoutly rebutted her mother. Victoria frowned. It was not right for a child to correct their parent. Her daughter's wildness had abated somewhat under Lehzen's intensive training, and, more importantly, since her father had tempered his impulse to indulge her every whim. Victoria feared that her daughter's headstrong impetuosity would remain a character flaw. While she herself had abhorred the rigid unyielding discipline of the Kensington System, too little correction was no good either.

"Then it must be a fair, in which case I will bring you and your brothers a special treat. How about…" Melbourne pretended to think.

"A pony! It's a horse fair, Rosalie said, and she must know. Her brother works in the stable. Isn't that right, Rosalie?"

The servant girl so addressed flushed a deep red and bowed her head.

"Yes, Your Royal Highness," she muttered, looking at her feet. "But it might be that Jemmy was mistaken."

Victoria shot Melbourne a warning glance, intending her look to be stern. What she saw on his face melted her resolve. This wonderful, this absolutely amazing man, with tears in his eyes and handsome features softened by some combination of vulnerability, wonder and pure unguarded affection – Victoria saw the boy in him, apple of his mother's eye, saw his young man's confidence falter when life turned topsy-turvy, saw the intervening years with their mixture of pleasure and pain.

These children were his, to lavish with all the love he had to give, and if Liam must belong first to her and then to the nation, Lily, spared her brother's great destiny, was the child of his heart. Any jealousy Victoria felt was easily extinguished now, secure in her knowledge of the man she adored.

"I was going to say, a candied apple for each of you. Or some taffy, if it's to be found. Aren't those proper fairground treats?" Melbourne winked at Victoria and she grinned back at him.

"We should be going," Victoria murmured. "Kiss Mama and Papa, dear hearts."

The weather was June-fine. Tradition demanded they process in an open landau past the crowds that gathered to wave and cheer. These people were not Londoners, volatile, loud in their expression of approval or its opposite. These were a sturdier breed, both more and less impressed by royalty in their midst. In Windsor, Ascot and the surrounding villages, the Castle was a ubiquitous presence. Every family claimed amongst its members day laborers, scullery maids and groundskeepers who earned a wage from the Queen. 

On a day such as this the crowd was composed mostly of women and children, their menfolk away at work. In London Victoria was always faintly leery of the massed humanity who thronged any processional route. She might be cheered or booed, and the missiles aimed at her might be flowers or baked goods or rotted fruit. In London, she felt as a stage actress must, in front of an audience demanding to be entertained. Her audience would not hesitate to express their dissatisfaction loudly in no uncertain terms. Victoria had learned to conceal her true self and show no trace of emotion. When perfectly audible comments reached her ears, she refused to react.

These good, stolid people were different, respectful and restrained. Women and girls bobbed curtsies when she approached, and if they cheered it was a polite, subdued sound. She was the Queen and they served her loyally, but she was neither the embodiment of every evil depicted in a crude pamphlet, nor a glittering supernatural icon who must be held to an impossible standard.

Victoria had never asked, but she suspected Lord M felt the same. Londoners had been loyal to a fault, during that unfortunate Norton trial, but their fealty stemmed from bawdy, winking admiration of his salacious escapade. Later, if Lord Melbourne wooed and won a girl-queen, well, it must be due to that same male prowess, and reflected well on every good Englishman. All this and more, they conveyed when they hailed him with bawdy good humor. He pretended not to care, but wore his own mask of benign detachment.

In the country, at Windsor and even more so at Brocket, Victoria saw his natural charisma emerge. He met their eyes with genuine smiles, even paused to exchange pleasantries with the smallfolk who lined the roads. He would ask after a son gone to sea, remember which husband had broken his leg, make an awkward young woman tongue-tied with his avuncular charm.

With impeccable timing, their cortege entered the grounds at precisely two o'clock. Victoria knew that her father's eldest brother, George IV in 1825, began what would become the traditional royal carriage procession up the course. Lord M had once said that it had been a necessary innovation, when George grew too obese to manage even a short walk.

The Royal Enclosure was a two-story viewing stand, by established tradition the place to see and be seen. Contrary to its eponymous designation, the Queen had very little say over who came and went, so long as they were of the proper class and social standing and suitably attired. Only the innermost sanctum was reserved for the monarch's private party.

Victoria, with Melbourne walking two steps behind, was escorted by the Master of Ceremonies. She greeted those who were presented to her, knowledgably discussing the horses that would run that day. She was more pleased to examine the thoroughbreds stretching long necks over the rail in her direction.

"Oh, do look at this fellow," she exclaimed to Melbourne, ducking her head just in time to rescue her feathers. Seeing his expression, a pretense of enthusiastic interest, Victoria laughed gaily. "Oh, William, you will never be a true horseman if you have no interest in their personalities."

Bottles of French Champagne sweated in buckets of ice, but Victoria asked for lemonade instead. She wrinkled her nose as Melbourne sipped at the driest of wines on offer.

"And you take it without sugar!" she observed, knowing full well that Melbourne never sweetened his wine. "I daresay that's one reason your stomach gives you trouble."

"The day I can no longer drink Champagne, ma'am, is the day I –"

Melbourne deftly exchanged his empty glass for a full one, his movement so quick that the footman holding a silver tray aloft never broke stride.

The first of their guests arrived. Miss Emily Eden and her brother, the Earl of Auckland, were amongst those invited to sit in the Queen's viewing stand on the first day of the races. They were soon joined by Lord and Lady Ashley, Melbourne's niece, known in the family as Minnie, and several other couples, judiciously chosen from both sides of the political aisle. Every man of rank held a seat in the House of Lords, but not all were active in government. Of those who were, Melbourne had instilled in Victoria the need to appear even-handed in the favor she showed.

Victoria did her duty, conversing for a respectable time with Miss Eden, asking Auckland his opinion of recent developments in the subcontinent, then turned to her niece-by-marriage.

"How do you feel?" she asked, ready to commiserate. Minnie had eight living children and would be delivered of her ninth in the autumn.

"I scarcely notice it, to be perfectly honest. I've never been cursed by morning sickness – you and I are alike in that – and until the last few months, it's no burden. Mother thinks we should be done with the business, but –"

Victoria only listened, unable to enter into such sentiment. Three, for her, were quite enough. The romanticism of those moments when one's husband was wonder-struck by the miracle of a woman bearing his seed, were far outweighed by the sheer animal nastiness that overtook one's body.

"You will send the children to Brocket?" Victoria asked. Lily was fast friends with all her like-age cousins, but Minnie's Lady Mary and Fanny's Lady Alice were her chief collaborators in all sorts of mischief. On balance, Victoria reckoned her daughter was less likely to find herself in serious trouble if boredom was not prompting her.

"Mary's been packed for days, and driving Nurse quite mad asking every morning if today is the day. You're so good to take Vicky and Lionel too. My Vicky is quite the little mother. You could have as many as you like, of course. The older ones all love seeing their grandmama's childhood home."

Victoria smiled and said nothing, thinking that four additional children with their nurses would be quite enough. She and Melbourne would travel back and forth, according to the demands of their respective duties, while the children remained at Brocket Hall for the summer, indulging in the relative freedom of country life.

"William plans to get Lily her own pony," she confided, expecting Minnie, an experienced mother, to share her concern.

"I'm sure most of mine have their favorite in the stables. St Giles House is positively overrun with the beasts. Ashley, like his father, are more concerned with the alleviation of social ills, than with managing their own estates."

"But Lily is so headstrong. I don't think she's ready for the privilege of her own horse. It will only encourage her."

"Victoria," Victoria noted that Minnie, a confident young matron of good birth, hesitated at using her Christian name and smiled encouragement. "– you worry too much. It is not your fault, of course. You were your mother's only hatchling, and you and Uncle have only the three. My own mother tells such stories of her childhood at Melbourne and Brocket Hall. Grandmama – Lady Elizabeth - allowed them to run quite wild, as everyone did in those days. If Uncle wants to get your Elizabeth a horse of her own, what harm can come of it at Brocket Hall?"

Victoria met and mingled with all who were presented to her. Lord and Lady Palmerston were the first to appear. Because of his machinations in the handling of government affairs, Foreign Secretary the Viscount Palmerston had to be kept at arm's length on State occasions. He was as scrupulous as she, to avoid any implication his rise was due to anything but his own talent. Victoria considered him an infuriating minister and the dearest, most charming of men.

After the requisite bow and curtsy, Victoria extended her hand. Palmerston kissed and then held it, tucking it securely in his elbow.

"Your Majesty," Emily said smoothly, then after a beat of time, "my dear sister."

The older woman brought her cheek to Victoria's and mimed a kiss. As was customary at social gatherings, the gentlemen stood off to the side, engrossed in their own conversation, leaving the ladies to their own devices.

Victoria glanced over and saw a wiry dark-skinned lad. It was impossible to guess his age, due to his small stature, but she guessed he was no more than eighteen. She assumed he would ride, except that he wore no distinctive satin livery.

She had wagered a small sum on a horse called The Hero, only because his name appealed, and when he was led forward Victoria stood at the rail to applaud. She startled at a light touch on her cheek and looked up to see Melbourne behind her. He stroked the line of her jaw with an index finger.

"Mrs. Melbourne," he said, reminding her of that long-ago Royal Ascot race day.

"I was never so pleased by anything," Victoria answered, feeling quite dewy-eyed. When the catcall had reached her, it had been meant as a public shaming, retaliation for her role in the Flora Hastings debacle. Instead, it had the opposite effect. That others could envision such a thing, even as a slur, then her feelings were validated, more real than the secret crush of an infatuated girl.

Hope, she had felt, and wonder, and pride, that such a man could possibly entertain feelings for her. Sophisticated, worldly, charming and debonair – that was Lord Melbourne. Plain and painfully shy, awkward and gauche, with the rounded face and smudged features of a child – that was Alexandrina Victoria. Without the crown, no man would look twice, and with it, they would see only her rank. But Lord M, from the first, had looked and seen her. He laughed and talked and almost – not quite – flirted openly. He explained things without making her feel stupid, and with his vast experience and trove of anecdotes, she began to understand the world. Above all, by the openness of his feelings, the tears which so frequently came to his eyes, the tender way in which he squeezed her hand when he knelt before her, she felt herself opening to the wonder and glory of love.

"'Mrs. Melbourne,'" Victoria repeated, tasting each syllable. "There has never been, nor ever will be, a title I value as much." She set her lemonade aside and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. On impulse, she brought it to her lips and kissed it, the hairs on the back of his knuckles tickling her nose, then primly turned her face away.

"How do you look so fresh? My linen has wilted in this heat. Do you never perspire, you unnatural creature?"

"No, I don't think I do," Victoria laughed, and tweaked his shirt collar which, as he pointed out, was beginning to droop. Unable to resist, she slid her fingers under the heavy waving hair that curled against his face, damp with perspiration.

"You silly, darling man," she said, feeling quite mature, even maternal. _To think he is_ mine _, to tease, to touch._ "Look, they are forming up."

Victoria liked sensing Melbourne at her back, stalwart and strong, liked that they could stand together as husband and wife. She waved a handkerchief when the other ladies did to hail the horses and riders, then settled back to watch the race.


	22. Chapter 22

Fanny Kemble Butler

* * *

Melbourne had slept only fitfully, plagued by thrumming pain in his head and a roiling, churning storm in his gut. When he awoke in the morning and his senses were violently assaulted by brilliant greens and reds, he remembered. _The King's State Bedchamber_. He had chosen to sleep apart from Victoria in deference to the sure onset of migraine, to spare his own dignity. Windsor not offering the same conveniences as Buckingham Palace, he had stumbled behind his valet into the only alternative readily available.

It would have been natural to blame Prinny – Regent, then King – for the garish choice of décor. The original ceiling painting by Verrio, portraying Charles II in triumph, had been replaced by Wyatville in the 1830s with a plaster ceiling modelled with heraldic devices and resplendent with gilt. he original ceiling painting by Verrio, portraying Charles II in triumph, was replaced by Wyatville in the 1830s with a plaster ceiling modelled with heraldic devices. Victoria had later caused the King's State Apartments to be elaborately redecorated and refurnished by the firm of J.G. and J.D. Crace for the visit of the King Louis Phillippe.

He first sipped, then gulped cold water from the pitcher left by his bed, fumbled for the bell rope and slid his feet to the floor.

Victoria arrived in a swirl of mint green and froth of white lace. A white plume swaying violently testified to her haste.

"What are you doing up and about?" she asked, waving off his valet. Melbourne fixed Baines with a reproachful glare.

"Dressing for the day, it appears," he said lightly. "Since my man appears to have other things on his mind, I will shave myself."

"Baines sent word by way of Skerrett, _just as he was instructed to do_. William, this is the final day. There is no need for you to accompany me. The heat has not broken, and if your headache is gone – which I doubt – it will return in a trice if you overtax yourself."

Two days under cloudless skies, in smothering heat more like that of southern France than June in England, had taken their toll. Melbourne had managed to remain upright and engaged through the presentation of the Queen's Cup on the afternoon of the preceding day. Victoria had unerringly seen through his façade of bonhomie.

"Stoicism doesn't become you, Lord M."

Melbourne grinned sheepishly, amused by her acerbic tone and the tolerant, almost maternal affection in her gaze. He studied his own bare feet for a time.

"What will people say, if the Queen's husband does not accompany her?"

"It is Ladies' Day at Ascot. Mama, the aunts and my ladies will make a full box. People will say that the Queen's husband wisely withdrew from the stage."

Victoria shrugged, then sidled up to him.

"Tomorrow we go to Brocket Hall. Ascot is only a race. Lily will accompany me. Sleep if you can –" she looked up at the ornate coffered ceiling and grimaced. Melbourne laughed too, feeling in equal parts guilty and relieved.

"It really is hideous," he agreed, looking around at the garish red and green décor.

"Go back to our bedchamber," Victoria directed. "Baines, bring Lord Melbourne's dressing gown. When you feel better, you might work on your new crest. I have written Norfolk, as Earl Marshal, to quarter the Royal Arms on your crest, just as the Prince Regent once did for Uncle Leopold. The College of Arms will produce your new badge and seal as soon as you decide on the artwork."

"Must I?" Melbourne rumbled, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown.

"You must," she answered firmly. "My darling, my dearest Lord M, this is all part of the job you took on when you wed me."

Melbourne followed docilely in her wake, not minding overmuch when she tucked him into bed, neatly folding a light summer covering at his chest. When her cool hand brushed the hair from his brow, Melbourne grasped her wrist and drew it to his lips.

"To think that I once warned Will against having females attend one in a sick room. You, my girl, make it tolerable to be coddled."

He doubted whether any other female could strike just the right tone so well as Victoria. She spared him the fluttering of his nieces, and tactfully withdrew when paroxyms of sickness attacked. When she spoke, it was not in that infuriating nursery singsong so many women used in a sickroom. Still…Melbourne sighed heavily, resigned to his fate. At least the migraines had plagued him since youth, and could not be attributed to old age.

By early afternoon he was restless, and demanded to be shaved and dressed. The thick walls of Windsor kept extremes of temperature at bay, so the corridors he traversed were pleasantly cool in contrast to the heat outside. The study was not so convenient, nor as well-appointed as their working offices at Buckingham, but regardless of location the boxes found them and several days' correspondence awaited his attention. At the top of the stack of letters was one in a distinctive feminine hand. Melbourne settled down to work.

♛

To Victoria, being surrounded entirely by females was not the situation she preferred. Nevertheless, if Melbourne was absent, it would only provide fodder for the gossips if she was escorted on such a public attention by any of the gentlemen in her household.

That was not to say they spent the day without male attention. A succession of visitors called on them. Hugh Cholmondeley, 2nd Baron Delamere, pleased Victoria by devoting marked attention to her mother. The Honorable Hugh was a dashing, handsome bachelor in his thirties, just old enough to awaken Mama's coy flirtatiousness, and Victoria bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking as she imagined how she would describe them to Lord M.

By late afternoon she felt the heat markedly, and was doubly grateful that he had agreed to remain behind. Iced drinks gave little relief and if the Enclosure spared them direct sun, it was oppressively hot nonetheless. Victoria decided enough was enough; she had enjoyed the races, cheered on her favorite in each meet, had met and mingled with people of all stations. It was time to take her leave.

Taking Lily's hand in her own, Victoria made her way down the stairs while her ladies gathered together shawls, fans and parasols. They came out not far from the finish line, where a group still clustered around the winners. She pitied the foaming, frothing horses, encumbered not only by saddles but draped in heavy silk blankets, more than she did the red-faced jockeys and trainers determined to soak up accolades. Humans had a choice in the matter; animals did not, she whispered to her daughter.

While they waited for the landau to be brought up, a quartet of handsome women approached hesitantly. Victoria arched a brow to show quiet surprise, and glanced at her own ladies-in-waiting.

"Permit me, Your Majesty," Lady Portman said, stepping forward. "Georgiana, Lady Seymour…" That lady, a fine-boned beauty with exquisite features, dipped into a curtsy and then rose with a saucy smile. Georgiana _Sheridan_ had been crowned Queen of Beauty at that lavish faux-feudal Eglinton Tournament in '39, Victoria recalled. Since then they had met as often as Court functions allowed, but Victoria could not quite overlook her familial ties – or her long association with Lord Melbourne.

The second lady, tallest and – if Victoria guessed correctly – eldest of three sisters was introduced as Helen, Baroness Dufferin and Claneboye. Victoria inclined her head graciously in acknowledgement of that lady's curtsy and turned to the third.

"Mrs. Norton," she said preemptively. "How do you do?"

"Very well, Your Majesty," Caroline answered. Her curtsy was stiff, but her lovely face showed no strain. Those dark eyes might have held a hint of assessment, but her smile seemed unforced.

Victoria turned her attention to the fourth woman in their party, and it was Caroline Norton who took the lead.

"Your Majesty, if I may, I should like to present Mrs. Butler, from the State of Georgia, in North America. She was formerly known to myself and much of London as Kemble."

"Of course! Fanny Kemble! I have heard much of you. Your talent has been sorely missed on the stage."

Victoria heard the poised grace in her own voice, and remembered to be grateful to Melbourne for providing such an excellent example.

"I thought I had put all that behind me," Mrs. Butler née Kemble replied. "But as you see –" she spread her hands wide, in a gesture surely held over from the theatre. "I've come home."

♛

"She is a handsome woman and conducts herself as a lady. Quite respectably dressed."

Victoria's maid couldn't disrobe her mistress quickly enough to suit her. Stripped to chemise and drawers, she lifted her chin and stood with arms akimbo while the girl washed her with blessedly cool water.

Melbourne lay on their bed with Freddy asleep on his chest. He listened closely for what she _didn't_ say, wondering whether an unexpected encounter with yet another woman from his past had caused Victoria greater upset than she would admit. And Caroline – how dare she accost her Queen in full view of the public? With her sisters in tow, there were still many who remembered _The Three Graces_ at the peak of their fame. To bring Fanny – a good sort of woman, but an actress and, based on her letter, soon-to-be divorcée – was unforgivable folly. Or boldness, more likely – Caroline, like that other who shared her name, was as drawn to public spectacle as Melbourne was averse.

Victoria emerged from behind the screen. She looked like a schoolgirl, Melbourne thought, face scrubbed clean and glowing with youthful good health. Disheveled hair was piled loosely on her head and, delightfully, she wore only her undergarments.

"Oh, this feels so good!" Victoria high-stepped over cool marble and climbed onto the bed.

"So, about Mrs. Butler…" Victoria paused, her eyes soft. "You make such a good, dear Papa! Our children are well-loved."

Melbourne stroked the baby-fine hair covering his son's head.

"She has promised to bring me the journal she kept in Georgia. She calls it her " _Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation_ " and assures me it will bluntly describe the horrors she has seen firsthand."

"'Bring you'? Then you will receive her at Court?"

"She did not ask and I did not offer. Times have changed, but not so much as that. I – I told her we would have her to dine at Brocket Hall."

Melbourne shifted Freddy's limp form and pushed himself to a seated position.

"What did your mother say to _that_?" He asked, frowning. "Or the aunts?"

"Aunt Adelaide was very good to all of Uncle King's children, and _their_ mother was an actress. Mama – well, you _know_ Mama. She is no prude, but puts on airs on account of her position, thinking it will lend her the consequence of which she was otherwise deprived. But Uncle Leopold, and my dear Papa and all of my other uncles were quite fond of actresses in their turn." Victoria met his eyes, her mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"I am neither as innocent nor as prudish as you imagine, Lord M. Nor as judgmental. Mrs. Butler seems a sensible woman, and is an admirer of _yours_ , which predisposes me to think well of her. I believe her words were, 'Lord Melbourne was the most comely creature I ever laid eyes on.' But do you mind terribly? Brocket Hall is our private residence, and no one can censure who we entertain there."

"Mind? Who are you, woman, and what have you done with my wife? So free-thinking, so liberal in your lack of disapproval…" Melbourne teased, stifling a laugh as Victoria pretended to buffet him with a pillow. Freddy lifted his head at the commotion, his blue eyes round and quizzical.

Melbourne weighed the suggestion. Yes, he and Fanny had been acquaintances – some might even say _friends_ – in the '30s, _before_. That was how he thought of his life, bisected into the decades prior to that day he kissed hands with the Queen and every day thereafter.

"And that she will be divorced?" He prodded. "As Head of the Church –"

"Lord Melbourne, it would behoove you to read more _contemporary_ religious tracts, rather than the Early Fathers. We separated from Rome over that issue, in Henry Tudor's reign. _Divorce_ or its alternative is not at issue; remarriage with a living spouse makes it a matter of canon law. If you ask how I feel as a woman…" Melbourne watched curiously as she parsed her words. Every thought, every feeling, was writ plain on that sweet face. Victoria was no dissembler; she was clever without being tediously intellectual, and had no patience with sophistry or even the splitting of hairs during philosophical debate at which he himself excelled.

"…I think if I were unhappily married, consigned to a lifetime with someone for whom I felt no particular affection, I would more readily judge others harshly. Why should another woman find the freedom I was denied? But," Victoria looked up from under lowered lids, her thick lashes seeming to brush her cheeks.

"That was not my fate, no matter how many might have wished it. Instead I am married to a man I adore, and to whom I am perfectly suited. So, no, I don't find myself shocked or disapproving. I think marriage is good for the family and society; it is the foundation upon which our society is built. But what individuals do in pursuit of their own happiness is – well, I tend to agree with you, that it is no business of Church or State."

She ducked her head shyly, as though suddenly embarrassed. Then, before he could defend himself, she began tickling his sides, giggling when he squirmed away.

The bell rope was pulled and a nursery maid summoned. The girl hurried in, tugging at her starched white cap to straighten it. Melbourne gingerly untangled Freddy's fists from his shirt and handed the baby over to the blushing maid. When he turned back, Victoria stretched out her arms.

"Kiss me, William!" she demanded.

* * *

**If you'd like to read more about Fanny Kemble, both Wikipedia and[PBS](https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p1569.html) have interesting articles. And yes, she is quoted by Cecil, Greville and Caroline Norton's biographer as describing Lord Melbourne's appearance during their meeting in 1836: "The most comely creature I ever saw." I will be using excerpts of her journals as dialogue during her upcoming visit to Brocket Hall, but for those interested in the entire volume, it's available on archive.org.**

[ _Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation_ ](https://archive.org/details/journalofresiden00kembuoft)


	23. Chapter 23

The extreme heat of those early weeks of summer soon gave way – albeit grudgingly, with fierce storms – to more mild temperatures. Then, the sunny days and cool nights were all one could hope for from June in the British isles.

At Brocket Hall, hours and days passed at a leisurely pace. Melbourne took advantage of the cool misty mornings to visit each of his tenants. He inspected cottages and outbuildings, listened to each farmer's concerns and discussed schemes for improvement. His own mother's interest in agricultural improvement had been considered another of Lady Melbourne's bold eccentricities, but thanks to her their estates in Hertfordshire and Derby had been amongst the earliest adopters of the Norfolk four-course crop rotation system. Likewise she had introduced an improved plough and was one of the first to invest in Mr. Salmon's haymaking machine. Melbourne considered his own contributions minor by comparison, but felt some private satisfaction in the general well-being of his tenants and did what he could to encourage their success.

Foreseeing what some considered the treachery of Sir Robert Peel, Melbourne had persuaded several of the more prominent farmers to work cooperatively with one another. Increased output was the only means left to British farmers, once the Corn Laws were repealed.

He would take one or another of the older children with him on these morning jaunts, most often Liam. It did no harm, he thought, to expose the boy early to these glimpses of more egalitarian encounters with the men and women over whom he would someday reign. The presence of their sovereign and the Heir Apparent had long lost whatever novelty it once had, and if the countryfolk who lived and worked near Brocket Hall felt some secret pride that the Queen herself was their neighbor, their manner showed no more than the respect due any landowner in the county.

Melbourne would drop a kiss on one downy cheek or bare shoulder, depending on which patch of peaches-and-cream skin was visible, and variously smooth or tousle mink-brown hair, and leave Victoria still asleep in their canopied bed.

He would return when the sun was high overhead and tell her of his morning's encounters. They would take refreshments on the terrace, weather permitting, and after listening to him and adding some comment Victoria would succinctly summarize any news from London.

Brocket Hall was situated far enough from the capital that ministers and officials did not readily assume their concerns required a face-to-face audience, yet close enough that a courier arrived daily with the red boxes and any correspondence.

Melbourne knew that, without a doubt, the quiet sameness of their days would at some point chafe. Then they would return to Buckingham Palace and immerse themselves again in a more frenetic existence. But until then, and unless some urgency arose, they would live the life of ordinary country gentlefolk.

It was playacting, of course, to some extent. Neither he himself nor Victoria would ever be entirely happy outside the public sphere where, for better or worse, they were an integral part of great events. _It is good to be attended to, and even better to be at the very centre of our great nation,_ he told himself. _England had stepped onto the world stage a century before, when Walpole – first of the Prime ministers – and men like him had ushered in a golden era of rapid expansion, industrialization and wealth,_ he had once told Victoria, when she'd asked about the origin of the premiership and its ascendency over the Crown. _And in your lifetime, if not mine_ , he had predicted to Victoria _, mark my words, England will become the most powerful and richest nation on Earth._

"So you've found something to interest you in Cole's Great Exhibition?" Victoria interrupted. She looked at him over her teacup and her eyes were crinkled at the corners, so Melbourne knew she was at least partially teasing.

He realized he was caught out. Still in the planning stages, what was called The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations had been the topic of much good-natured grumbling from Melbourne. He had expected his assumption of a seat on the planning committee would be yet another titular role. Everyone wanted a Royal – or the next best thing, the Queen's consort – on their board and committee, for the cachet and whatever more tangible benefits they could reap. Of all the Royal-Thises-and-Thats, the Great Exhibition had been by far the least appealing to Melbourne. The idea had been born from the success of its Parisian predecessor, and entailed a degree of enthusiasm for science and industry which Melbourne utterly lacked.

"Ma'am, that is not a fair statement," he protested, leaning forward to accept the bread Victoria had buttered for him. "It implies either that I lacked suitable interest before, or am unduly interested in a particular exhibit now. The Great Exhibition will come to fruition with or without my interest, but it is a matter of some pride for the County that at least some of the 13,000 exhibits will be from our neighbors. Naturally I could not turn down an invitation to review our local submissions."

The modification of a seed drill design so that it could be produced _en_ _masse_ in a foundry by agricultural machinery manufacturer Howards of Bedford, F Barford, hat-maker of St Albans, Connell and Brodie of Luton and Cooper of Dunstable, also in the hat trade, while the lace making industry included submissions from T Hurst, T Lester and CJ Sims all pillow-lace makers of Bedford…Melbourne droned on, listing them all from memory. He kept his expression neutral and his tone deliberately flat, until Victoria could feign interest no longer. Then she erupted in that silver-toned laughter, the girlish giggle he found so irresistibly endearing.

"I am sure it's very commendable, of course. And when do we inspect these marvels?" she asked, collecting herself.

Melbourne marveled at these occasional glimpses of the bright, shining girl she had been. Victoria was a handsome woman, no longer a girl, and for the most part that was a relief. As smitten as he'd been with the girl of just eighteen, her extreme youth had put him at a disadvantage. Her dewy-eyed innocence had remained even after they had consummated their relationship, and along with it an unbridled tornado of emotion. Even their physical union had been affected– Melbourne considered and discarded several descriptors, before settling on _colored_ in place of _tainted_ – by the inescapable proof of her newness. The novelty had been a double-aged sword.

In Melbourne's estimation, anyone who denied the power of biological imperative had never been presented with a nubile, even eager, eighteen year old. Fresh silky skin, taut muscle, gleaming white teeth, even a distinctive natural scent, emitted a clarion call of physicality that reawakened jaded senses. But if nature made a very young woman the epitome of desire for purposes of propagation, then aeons of civilizing influence and the curse of self-awareness ensured a sense of one's own iniquity, if the age difference was vast.

No, Melbourne thought yet again, we are well past that stage and I am devoutly grateful for it.

"You stare, Lord M. Have I broken out in spots?"

Only time and the extreme care he had taken brought them safely over those rocky shoals to this more peaceful place. If he sometimes missed the utter, wondering adulation bordering on hero-worship, that was a transient feeling based on little more than nostalgia.

"Not at all, my love. Well…" he pretended to consider the matter further. "You have some new freckles I have not seen before. Perhaps a sunhat and veil are in order, else I fear what your Mama will say."

There was a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, which Melbourne considered adorable. Ladies, of course, prized pale consumptive complexions, but that was no more than a fashion. He himself thought the touch of color adorable and appealing, a remnant of childhood in his self-possessed and very dignified wife.

Ever compliant, Victoria called for her sunhat. It was a somewhat aged piece of headwear left over from the earlier days, which resided on a peg in the gunroom.

Refreshed from his morning's outing, Melbourne and Victoria walked over the grounds. Together they decided on the placement of a new shrub and transplantation of hybrid roses from the conservatory. The new avenue of lime trees underwent special scrutiny. Paxton and a whole posse of laborers had transplanted young trees, each of them nearing fifteen feet in height, so that they lined the main approach. When fully grown, they would join overhead in an arch, forming a lush green tunnel.

In one hand Victoria carried a wicker basket. She laced the fingers of her other hand through his, swinging their arms in time with their paces as they strode across the lawn.

Evergreen shrubs had been planted all along the foundation and already did much to soften the aspect of the main northern façade. Melbourne had left it to Victoria to choose the annual flowers and she had with her own hands, and much willing if inexpert assistance from Liam and Lily, filled a dozen large white stone pots on pedestals with red geraniums and trailing ivy. They were a predictable choice, but effect was pleasing, enhancing the neat classical symmetry of the Hall.

"Shall we walk around to the Temple?" Victoria asked. She peered up at him, shading her eyes from the sun. Melbourne adjusted the brim of her hat and smoothed its tattered silk ribbons.

"If you wish," he answered. "Perhaps even down to the pond?"

The pond was a man-made feature, and like the larger and more decorative Broadwater relied on diversion of water from the River Lea. Whereas the Broadwater was prominently placed to be seen and admired from the public rooms of the Hall, the pond was hidden away, protected from casual discovery in a secluded location.

"Perhaps," Victoria said, pursing her lips in expectation of a kiss. Her lashes fluttered and he saw the very tip of her tongue dart out.

"Very tempting, my little love, but I think we dare not contemplate swimming _au naturel._ The children are no longer so easily held captive as they once were."

Two summers before Victoria had learned to swim as Melbourne and his brothers once had, delighting in freedom from the encumbrance of clothing and the feel of the cool water on her skin. _All_ of her skin, Melbourne recalled, feeling a twitch of remembered desire. Long hair streaming down her bare back, voluptuously naked as she cavorted in the water and then clinging to his shoulders as he – Melbourne shuddered.

"Briefly, very briefly. I suppose it can do no harm. Now, about the new trees –"

They meandered over the undulating lawn, looking for wooden stakes with bright cloth tied to the top. Paxton had found the time to come down from London, to look in on the young apprentice he had given Melbourne for his use. Karl Ortgies was a promising young nurseryman w not yet turned twenty-one, who plied his trade with passion. Nothing, however, could replace the vast experience of the older horticulturist, and his exacting eye for placement and proportion.

"Paxton will stop on his way to Chatsworth. He hopes to take a few cuttings of the Mandevilla vine for Devonshire. So, what do you think – if we repeat the theme of the grotto -?

Victoria listened attentively, her eyes fixed on his. Melbourne suggested which species of trees he would like, tactfully pausing to await her opinion. When Victoria drank in his words, no matter how commonplace the topic, he felt his heart expand almost painfully in his chest. He could and did mock himself and his vanity, but was powerless to stop the effect.

They found themselves at the edge of a thicket, boxwood hedges forming a natural wall. Seen from the house, it was no more than a geometric arrangement of stylized shrubbery. Taller than any man, the wall of greenery seemed unbroken.

Victoria tugged at Melbourne's hand, pulling him along until they reached the far side. There, scarcely noticed, was an opening just wide enough for a single person to pass.

The little enclosure was the size and shape of a retiring room, scarcely more than ten feet to a side. A small stone fountain tinkled musically and songbirds chirped unseen in the boughs. A chaise and small wrought iron chair were the only alien elements; glossy green leaves from myriad plants the sole hint that this structure had had occurred by chance. The air was heavy with floral perfume.

"We have no deadline to speak of, and no schedule to follow. Sit with me awhile!"

Victoria took off her hat, tossed it aside. Her arms encircled his waist. Without the layered taffeta petticoats of fashionable London dressing, Melbourne could feel her thighs against his own legs, her belly against his groin, and the sensation was delicious.

"As you say, ma'am." Melbourne dropped heavily onto the cushioned chaise, taking her with him. Victoria settled herself comfortably against him and rested her head against his chest.

"Mmmm, this is so nice," she murmured. "Tell me again, what do I smell?"

"Gardenia," Mebourne said. "Although it smells even sweeter at night. That small tree in the pot there – Brugmansia – has no particular fragrance, although it will bloom with each full moon. The moonflower vine will reach the top of the hedge by August, and if we don't trim it back it will begin choking the wisteria vine. By comparison with those, I'm afraid _Polianthes tuberosa_ is a humble specimen." Melbourne gestured towards the clusters of that flower around the base of the fountain. "You particularly liked the _Nicotiana alata_ for its flowers, I think? It has only beauty to recommend it. The night-blooming jasmine, on the other hand, isn't much to look at but has a seductive perfume all its own."

While he named the flowering plants around them, Victoria's fingers had been busy undoing the buttons on his shirt. Once she reached the bottom she laid her hand palm-down on the skin over his ribcage and fluttered her fingers as if they danced across the keys of a pianoforte. Her touch was practiced, as infinitely familiar as coming home, and Melbourne leaned his head back to drink in the sweetness.

"Gardenia, secret love. Tuberose, guilty pleasure," Victoria said, reciting from the worn copy of _Lingua Flora_ she kept at her bedside. Moonflowers, dreaming of love. And wisteria…" her lips found the tender spot in the hollow under his ear. "Long life, immortality."

"You've created a little piece of Heaven just for us, William." When Victoria spoke again, her voice was husky. "This heavenly secret garden at Brocket Hall, where we are already in our own private world."

It was intended for them or rather, for her. He'd sketched out a design for what would be, if not strictly a _secret_ garden, then one that was as unobtrusive as possible, a pocket garden-within-a-garden. The space was close enough to the house that it could be reached through the French doors in her sitting room, once the exclusive domain of his mother, entirely off-limits to her husband and children. Rumor amongst the servants was that she entertained her lovers there, right under the indifferent nose of the 1st Viscount Melbourne.

"It is a secret garden, only for us," she continued, yet again seeming to pluck the thoughts directly from his mind. "With night-blooming flowers, all of them white – it's quite magical! You make magic, Lord M!" Victoria repeated that last phrase as if she was delighted by her own word choice. "Magic!"

Her fingers hadn't stopped their exploration. It was, if not a clearly delineated game between them, then most certainly part of their intimate repertoire. One or the other of them would lavish the other with entirely chaste stroking and caresses, meanwhile carrying on the most casual of conversations. It had a most substantial effect, one Melbourne especially appreciated because it lacked the specific intent of conventional foreplay and freed each of them to luxuriate in the moment without expectation. That uncertainty alone was a heady aphrodisiac that took them back in time to the days of unrequited longing.

Victoria ducked her head so suddenly that Melbourne gasped, feeling her sharp little teeth bite down on his earlobe. Then she laid back against him, in a posture of relaxation that indicted clearly matters would not progress. Melbourne held her to his heart, breathing deeply until the throbbing need in his groin receded.

"We mustn't fall asleep," Victoria said drowsily. "Tonight Miss Eden and Mrs. Butler dine with us. Emily and Henry are having them to stay at Broadlands after, so we need only put them up for the night."


	24. Chapter 24

"Tighter, please. Lace me more tightly." Victoria inhaled sharply and set her jaw, determined not to exhale until Skerrett successfully reduced her waist by another inch.

She had ordered the new summer gowns just that mite smaller, with the hope it would provide additional motivation. She monitored her own intake closely – first, after Melbourne's apoplectic stroke, to encourage his compliance with the physician's reducing diet and then, in grudging acknowledgment of an inherited tendency towards corpulence in her own family. But Victoria abhorred the taking of deliberate exercise. Walking for pleasure, through the gardens of Buckingham or Windsor or across the grounds of their beloved Brocket Hall, was a delight when she and Melbourne could meander at will, both conversationally and in whatever direction their lackadaisical strolls took. The handful of calisthenic enthusiasts, her own dear Lehzen, a natural ascetic, amongst them, who ventured their own opinion, were adamant that to be beneficial, physical exercise must entail a degree of discomfort.

In Victoria's strongly-held opinion, with which Lord M concurred, such deeply repugnant, not to mention unattractive, conditions were contradictory to the dignity of her rank. Well, all that too, she had giggled with Lord M, but it's so very _uncomfortable_ to sweat and pant like a stevedore.

Her corset laced as tightly as her dresser could manage, Victoria dared a glance in the mirror. Her gown was a tartan plaid, of the newest, most costly woven cotton. _Indian_ cotton, ginned in Manchester, trimmed with good English lace. Mechlin lace might be more finely-wrought, and that crafted in Brussels more uniform in its exquisite strands, but the Honiton lacemakers held a royal warrant and Victoria was adamant that her dressmakers draw upon British sources for the material which went into her wardrobe.

Her Turkish emerald set, necklace and earrings, or were pearls more appropriate for a simple country dinner? _I don't want to look as if I'm trying_ too _hard,_ she thought, _but neither do I want to offend with faux simplicity._

Victoria owned just a bit of anxiety, thinking of the evening ahead. _Fanny Kemble_ was still a well-known name, reputed to be as beautiful as she was charming. Emily had regaled her with some anecdotes, and even Uncle Leopold added his mite. Thinking of the uncle she had been taught to regard as a veritable paragon of virtue, Victoria grinned. _Mama_ certainly managed to entertain contradictory views, alluding to Uncle's penchant for actresses with a disapproving sniff even as she held her brother up as the font of all wisdom and manly perfection.

None of the gossips connected Lord M with Miss Kemble – or _Mrs. Butler_ , as she had been known since she migrated to the States. At least, not in any way which hinted at a disreputable connection. Of course, Emily had added in her insufferable way, delicately jabbing at Victoria's sensibility, he was besotted with that Norton creature at the time. His obsession with the hussy went so far as to blind him to the charms of the illustrious Fanny, just as it cast our dear Miss Eden into the role of _friend_.

No, I am not _jealous_ of Mrs. Butler, but she is an old friend of William's – acquaintance, at the least – and I want her to admire me, just a little, even, perhaps, be a tiny bit jealous of _me._

"The emerald earbobs, please, Skerrett. I will leave off the necklace." Victoria tied a bit of green velvet ribbon around her neck, turning her head left and right to see the effect.

"That looks remarkably fine, ma'am," her maid said, in that gruff common accent which Victoria had grown to like.

"It does, doesn't it?" she answered, dimpling. "Not what one would expect of a Queen."

Skerrett arranged a light lace shawl over her bared shoulders.

"I hear nothing from Lord Melbourne's dressing room, Skerrett. Please ask Baines if they are nearly ready to go down."

The London party had arrived just past five, and retired soon after to the rooms they would occupy for the night. They would go down at eight to gather, and dine at nine. Afterward, in lieu of a more formal entertainment, Victoria planned a stroll around the pleasure garden. Luminaries had been placed in the trees and around the near shore of the Broadwater. If a sudden shower disrupted those plans, well, then they would content themselves with conversation and cards.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Skerrett said when she returned. Victoria detected a faint whiff of that relish servants took in conveying something unexpected, if not unpleasant. "Baines says his Lordship hasn't come in yet. The nurse came seeking Master Frederick, for his feeding and bath, and says she left him with His Royal Highness. Baines says the girl was quite put out, as it's time and overdue for the baby to be put to bed."

 _His Grace_ was on the tip of Victoria's tongue, but it behooved her nothing to correct the servants on proper usage. That the Queen's own husband wasn't a _Royal_ anything, and no _Highness_ either, was as perplexing to the staff as it was to at least some of the lesser peerage.

If Melbourne wasn't in his own dressing room, washing and shaving and dressing for dinner, and wasn't in the nursery either, then he must still be where I left him, Victoria decided.

"Never mind, Skerrett. Please ask Baines to have his Grace's evening clothes ready. I will go and find him myself."

Victoria tripped lightly down the stairs and slipped out a side door. The night-garden – what she privately thought of as their secret garden – was only just around the corner. She hoped that their guests were not yet in the drawing room, but if they were, well, there was nothing to be done. Let them wonder why their hostess, in her evening gown and jewels, was crossing the lawn rather than reigning over her own dinner-party.

She knew she was right in her supposition as soon as she approached the encircling hedge. Melbourne's long legs, encased in tight riding breeches and boots, could just be glimpsed, stretched out before him.

"William! I might have known you'd fall asleep out here-"

He was sprawled in the chaise, eyes closed, Freddy asleep on his chest. Victoria, despite her haste, stopped short to look at the picture they made. The cherubic baby boy in dreamland, a chubby fist to his mouth, bare head feathered with a cap of wispy hair. And his father –

The great leonine head was flung back, eyes closed and lips just parted. For a solitary moment he appeared as lifeless as a statute and Victoria's breath stopped. Then he exhaled with a soft rumble, between a cough and a sigh, and she herself sighed in unison.

As close as they were, even sharing a bed, Victoria rarely saw her husband so still. Something about the sight was disturbing and she parsed her thoughts for a reason. Certainly not the pose – seeing this man so tenderly cradling his infant child – but the stillness itself, she decided. Those features were meant to be alive and in motion, the wide grey eyes expressive, softened by affection or twinkling with amusement, or alert with interest, assessing or even stormy with rare anger. Straight dominant nose the only physiological hint of a strong will and the temper he kept carefully subdued. And his mouth, exquisitely drawn upper lip confessing easily wounded sensitivity and full lower lip that of a sensualist.

 _Handsome as ever_ , she told herself, forming the sentence with great care and determination in her mind. A traitor thought slipped in, unwanted. _But he looks so old!_ Victoria pushed back with vigor, trying to deny the very notion.

Melbourne's age was never a factor their married life. He just _was_ , ageless and eternal, always and forever the dashing Minister who genuflected over her hand. Of course, Victoria was aware of his age, not in association with her own but as a dim distant warning that time itself was not infinite. Sixty-seven; he would be sixty-eight on his next birthday. _But that isn't_ old _,_ she told herself, and was only belatedly aware that she had voiced the protest aloud. Why, Wellington, that indomitable old soldier, was ten years beyond Melbourne at seventy-seven, and still vigorous and straight and strong.

Still, Victoria felt as though an abyss had revealed itself swirling dangerously beneath her feet. That Melbourne would not always be with her; that Melbourne would not always be _Melbourne_ , wise, charming and oh-so-devastatingly-attractive; suddenly overwhelmed her with anticipatory horror.

She dropped to her knees beside his chair, ignoring the damp earth staining her gown. She held his face in her palm and rained kissed over the fine-grained skin. Her lips grazed against a day's growth of beard, nursed at the thin skin beside each eye. As he began to stir her kisses grew more frantic.

Melbourne muttered something inarticulate and peered at her from under his lashes. Victoria only felt that sudden panic recede when she recognized the glint of teasing laughter in those eyes.

"Our – our guests have arrived, and will be down shortly, if they are not already," she said, sounding ridiculously prim even to her own ears. "You must go up at once and dress for dinner. Let me call the nurse for Freddy."

"I can carry my own child to his nurse," Melbourne said, shifting the tiny burden and rising. He moved Freddy to one arm and with the other gave Victoria his hand.

"Now look what you've done, Madame," he teased. "Mud stains on your new gown. I see where our little princess gets her hoydenish tendencies."

"Oh, never mind," Victoria snapped, pretending to an annoyance she did not feel. "Skerrett can sponge it off and this plaid will not show the damp. Off with you. Miss Kemble and Miss Eden and Emily await."

♛

Melbourne fully intended to oblige Victoria and present himself to their guests with a semblance of propriety. To that end he even went through the kitchens and up the servants' staircase. Just as he was tiptoeing into the nursery, his own sister came through the corridor door with the two ladies with whom they would dine.

He took Em's chiding with good grace, rubbing his grizzled chin ruefully. She took the baby, now awake and viewing the fuss with a puzzled expression, and he embraced Mrs. Butler and Miss Eden in turn.

"Come then, if you'll forgive my disarray, and let me show off the elder children."

Lily and Liam were summoned from the small nursery dining room to make their curtsy and bow. Melbourne and Victoria were in agreement that children did not show to advantage when required to form part of an evening's entertainment. He watched with pride and satisfaction as first Liam, then Lily, came forward and bowed and curtsied respectively to their elders. Only then did they sweetly receive the obligatory curtsies in return, the modestly ducked heads and murmured _Your Highnesses._

Melbourne considered it a fine line to distinguish, between the courtesy which should be a hallmark of any gently-reared child and the obeisance due their royal station. He might prefer to keep them entirely apart from the pomp and circumstance of Court life, but it was not a realistic prospect. Instead, he contented himself with ensuring they felt comfortable in themselves and not overly reliant on matters of precedence, even as they grew into the dignity expected of a prince and princess of England.

Emily took it upon herself to show off her youngest nephew – her _only_ Lamb nephew, in the eyes of the world. Emily Eden smiled politely and demonstrated the slightly distant manner of one who has no children of her own and desired none. Fanny – _Mrs. Frances Butler_ , he must remember to think of her – was a mother now, but had lost none of her slightly flamboyant, animated manner, and lavishly praised the infant. Melbourne listened with an amused smile, aware that one three-and-a-half months' babe in arms was indistinguishable from another. Of course, _he_ considered Freddy precocious and without a doubt the most lovable, appealing baby ever born, at least since his brother and sister were in their cradles. _He_ knew everything there was to know about Freddy, what it meant when those little rosebud lips tightened and the big blue eyes narrowed in concentration, how very much those chubby legs enjoyed stretching and kicking when freed of confining blankets.

Melbourne indicated with a lift of his chin that the waiting nurse should remove Freddy from his doting aunt's embrace. He kissed his elder son and daughter on the top of their freshly-shampooed heads and sent them off to finish their dinner.

"Ladies, pray go downstairs without me. _Victoria_ looks forward to entertaining you, whilst I must change for dinner lest I disgrace her and the honor of Brocket Hall."

The use of her Christian name was a debatable choice; amongst the family, she was only Victoria, and at Brocket Hall, to the servants and tenants she was _Lady Melbourne_ , if they could be encouraged to comply. For the most part they did rather well, with only the occasional _Your Majesty_ slipping out.

Perhaps if Fanny were alone, or they were in London, he would have defaulted to the more conventional address. But at Brocket Hall – Melbourne shrugged, his lips tightening in a grin as he realized yet again he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. _Sotto voce,_ but aloud, a sure hallmark of advancing age, or so he might have thought in his long-ago youth.

♛

"Did Your Majesty have the opportunity or inclination to read the pages I sent?"

Dinner past, they walked at a leisurely pace down the winding gravel path which encircled the South Lawn planting beds. The three-quarters moon and clear starlit sky, augmented by luminaries spaced at intervals, illuminated the plantings. Beyond a slight rise the placid surface of the Broadwaters seemed to sparkle in the moonlight.

"I did indeed," Victoria replied. She considered her next words carefully. "It is the first time I've read such a…vivid description of the conditions under which slaves work and toil. Of course, it is sinful and a great wrong, which is why Britain outlawed the slave trade long ago. But to experience it firsthand as you did, and as your journals allow the reader to do, is quite enlightening. I think it can do no harm to increase one's understanding."

"I am flattered, Your Majesty, that you found something of merit in my poor journals. At the time I wrote them, and the letters contained therein, I had some conceit that they might be published. Now, however…"

Victoria listened as Mrs. Butler went on to explain that under the terms of her pending divorce, if she dared publish a single sheet she would lose all access to her children.

"As Your Majesty is aware, the law is not kind to mothers anywhere, when they desire to leave the bonds of matrimony."

It was the closest either came to mentioning Caroline Norton, or the recent interest Victoria had taken in her case. _Not_ her case; the situation at large, Victoria amended in her own mind. She was no longer prostrate with jealousy, born of her own insecurity, when Mrs. Norton's name was mentioned. Still, it was no pleasant thing to discuss her husband's former mistress with someone who had known them when they were a couple.

"What would _you_ do, if it was up to you?" Victoria asked, both to steer the conversation onto more comfortable grounds and because she was genuinely curious.

"I don't know," Mrs. Butler replied instantly. "There are no good answers. Unless, of course, one could go back in time and prevent the whole business at its inception."

"Then you understand, a little, the quandary we face in Jamaica. If the United States, with its vast uninhabited tracts of land, cannot contemplate simply ending slavery with the stroke of a pen, then how much less could a tiny island survive such unplanned unilateral emancipation?"

Victoria, over the course of the evening, had found herself captivated by the former actress. She was a handsome woman, certainly, but beyond mere physical beauty there was a crackling _electromagnetism_ about her. Charisma, the ever-so-slightly magnified gestures and constant animation, the sense of energy which surrounded her like an aura.

Now she saw a knowing smile on that arresting face.

"That was always the consideration of those who pressed for an end to slavery in Jamaica and throughout the British territories. And it's the truth, as far as it goes. If the governor had simply freed the slaves, where would they have gone and how would they have survived? Not to mention, the landowners would have tied the matter up in court for decades."

"The Apprenticeship Laws were intended to equip former slaves with the necessary skills to earn their living. Our governor even devised a plan to transport as many who wished to go, return passage to Africa. None accepted; they knew nothing of that continent, except the horror stories handed down from their ancestors. But America is a vast country, many, many times as large as Jamaica. Surely, with a will to do so..."

"What are you ladies discussing so seriously?" Emily sang out, walking more swiftly to catch up to them.

Victoria was secretly grateful for the interruption. It was difficult, so very difficult, to choose her words with care lest she express an opinion at odds with one faction or another in government. Easier, if Lord M had been at hand, but he was strolling behind with his friend Miss Eden.

"And will you go back on the stage, Fanny? I daresay I can still call you Fanny, without giving offense?" Emily asked.

Victoria had learned to know her sister-in-law over the years, at least enough to detect the traces of archness which tinged her voice when she used the feminine version of Lamb wit and charm to deliver a cut without seeming to do so. She glanced at Mrs. Butler, wondering how that lady would respond.

"I am indeed, Lady Palmerston. I find myself in need of earning a living, and I confess I performing."

"And will your – what _does_ one call a former husband? – your former husband permit you to bring your children back to London?"

"I will visit them in the summer for six weeks. He will have them the rest of the time, and I will rebuild my career as best I can. Your Majesty – if you were to honor the first playhouse to book me, by attending my comeback performance – "

Victoria was taken aback by such a bald request, but a sudden bashfulness in the actress softened her.

"I am sure Lord Melbourne and I would be pleased to attend," she answered smoothly, hoping against hope that their names would not appear on a playbill.

♛

Melbourne untied his cravat, released his high collar points, removed his shoes and stockings, all the while lost in thought. The evening had gone well, he reckoned. It was pleasant to see old friends, some of them – thinking of Emily Eden – dearer than others. Truth be told, he and Fanny Kemble had never been particularly close. They had attended the same salons and gatherings, yes, but if she was acquainted with him it was through Caroline Norton, who in turn shared only the Sheridan playhouse connection. Fanny was a social climber, eager to see and be seen by those who could provide some advantage. She was a desirable guest at the lively sort of eclectic gatherings La Norton had prided herself on hosting. How and why she had managed to get herself invited to the Queen's country house was a matter for some speculation, but no particular importance.

His thoughts returned always to Victoria – _had something been slightly off, no, that isn't right, but different?_ He still watched closely for signs of her old insecurity, so that he might tactfully intervene, but it had not been necessary tonight or for some time. Months, if not years – his mind wandered, looking for some firm date on which to fix her newfound confidence and maturity. _Fool's errand, that_ , he realized. We grow and change minutely day by day, or never if we are the sort of unfortunate creatures whose entire character emerged fully formed.

Melbourne shrugged off his closely-fitted tailcoat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. While Baines the valet busied himself brushing the fine broadcloth, he stepped out of his trousers and reached for a dressing gown.

 _Tap tap_ , a knock so soft it was almost indiscernible from the normal sounds of creaking floorboards and cupboard doors being opened and closed. Victoria took it upon herself to knock before entering to spare his valet's feelings. A well-trained gentleman's gentleman, the valet maintained a neutral expression which didn't entirely conceal his discomfort at the mistress presenting herself at certain stages of the master's toilette.

"I'll be along presently, ma'am," Melbourne told her. He was unable to resist adding a bawdy wink. "Unless you care to stay and assist."

Fully expecting a saucy reply as she arranged herself on the red velvet settee, Victoria surprised Melbourne by backing out of the room. He thought he heard her sigh softly.

"What's amiss, my little love?" he questioned, as soon as he'd joined her in their inner chamber. Victoria was under the bed covers, sitting ramrod straight and staring into the middle distance. She wore a lost, wistful expression he thought.

"Talk to me. Did something upset you? I thought the evening went as well as it could. Was it that woman's dreadful stories about the – what was it? A rice plantation?"

Victoria shook her head and her long brown hair swayed with the movement. Melbourne squinted, imagining he saw a shudder ripple her back under the thin fabric of her night dress.

"William, promise me – promise me you will never get old," she blurted, choking on the last word as though it was the most vile of conditions. Melbourne laughed in spite of his concern.

"Sweetheart, I'm afraid that horse has already bolted," he said gruffly, extending his arm in their usual nighttime ritual. She should come into it then, curling herself contentedly against him, drawing the comfort she derived from close contact. Instead she threw herself directly at him, pummeling his chest.

"No! You are _not_ old. You are just you. Not young, not old, just…Lord M. Always and forever, my Lord M!"

Melbourne, bemused, patted her shoulder in a feeble attempt at consolation. He struggled to understand what brought on such a sudden frenzy, or why the matter of age should suddenly rear its head. _What can I say?_ He asked himself. _I can't deny the calendar. It's always been there, and she's always understood the vast difference in our ages._

"Sshh," he whispered against her hair. His palm moved in circles over her back, feeling the ridges of her spine and firmness of taut young flesh. "Shhh, my darling, shhhh."

Victoria sobbed as if her heart were breaking, as if the day of reckoning had already come. It chilled Melbourne, as if her dread were contagious. He knew intuitively and from long experience of her, what it would take to divert her mind and bring her back to the present. Unfortunately for them both, he had never felt less inclination, as if the spectre of infirmity and death lay between them on the marital bed.

Instead he allowed her to cry herself out, his hand moving over her from the nape of her neck to the cleft of her buttocks, a touch meant to soothe, to convey love and reassurance. Finally her tears stopped and she lay still against him, energy depleted.

"You must think I'm quite silly," she whispered. "Are you happy? Tell me that at least, have I made you happy?"

"My precious girl, you make me happy ever hour of every day. Can you doubt it?"

"Do I really? Then –" Victoria swallowed hard, her throat working. "Oh never mind. Perhaps it's just – perhaps my courses are due. I haven't – since Freddy was born. Forgive me? I hope I didn't ruin your evening."

"Such silliness! You ruined nothing! I was never more proud and pleased. It's a fine thing to see old friends and be able to strut such a triumph, as my beautiful wife and our children. Promise me you felt no concern in that regard? I scarcely know Fanny, to tell you the truth. She was once quoted, in some silly book, describing my person – and Mrs. Norton's – in extravagant terms. From that, grew the usual sort of gossip and speculation..."

 _Am I protesting too much?_ Melbourne wondered, amused at the irony of a truth sounding more artificial than falsehood.

"'The comeliest creature I ever laid eyes on,'" Victoria recited from memory. "Yes, I remember. Since it's true, at least where you're concerned, I shan't protest. And because you're _mine_ , all _mine."_


	25. Chapter 25

In the end, they hardly slept at all. Melbourne spoke in a near-whisper, in deference to the midnight hour. As suddenly as her tearful outburst appeared, it receded again as she listened, rapt.

Once upon a time, as a very impressionable young woman, Victoria took his every utterance to heart, even committing those words to paper in the pages of her diary, repeating them as her own soon after. After the first few times he heard some glib, throwaway comment on her lips, earning her censure from those eagle-eyed watchers quick to judge their new sovereign, he had begun to temper both natural flippancy and adopted cynicism.

The formation of her character had been complete from the start – he had never encountered a more vivid, fully developed being – but years and experience had taught her polite dissembly, the art of ambiguity and the absolute necessity of maintaining a neutral façade. In public and amongst her courtiers, at least; between themselves, at the end of the day, both Melbourne and Victoria could let down their guard.

Melbourne enjoyed talking, that was a given; he especially enjoyed talking to _her_. He was no public orator, and in the House he was notorious for stuttering and stumbling, losing the train of his thoughts. By contrast, in his own milieu, in the clubs and salons where conversation was an art, he was still a much-sought-after guest. With Rice, Greville and their cohort he would debate the most esoteric of subjects. But with Victoria…ah, with _her_ , verbal intercourse was nearly as delightful as that other sort.

They spoke of the thorny issue of slavery, of course; the presence of Mrs. Butler under their roof put the matter front and center. Not whether it was good or bad, right or wrong; that was a foregone conclusion, reached a half-century or more before when Britain put its ships of the line into the fight against slave ships transporting their human cargo. But what to do with its legacy? That was the question. How to correct the almost insurmountable error of their predecessors, who built fortunes on the backs of those benighted souls? _What_ could they have been thinking, those otherwise decent and respectable men who carved out sugar empires in the Caribbean? How could they have failed to consider the curse they were putting on their descendants and the entire Western world, by importing hundreds of thousands of people from an alien race already unsuited for life in a civilized society, and then breeding into them a hatred for their captors which would grow like a cancer? Those men had made their fortunes, blithely unaware or uncaring that their own children and grandchildren for centuries to come would be left paying the price for such shortsighted avarice. Such talk was lightened by the asides Melbourne offered, vignettes and anecdotes which added the color and texture upon which Victoria depended for context.

They spoke of their children, of Freddy's tendency to bruise despite the coddling and care with which he was nurtured; of Lily's surprising aptitude for music, if only she had the discipline to practice. And of both children's newfound interest in gardening, their rival tomato plants and Liam's peculiar fascination with Venus flytraps. _Morbid_ , Victoria called it, huffing a muffled laugh, and _quite repulsive_. Melbourne protested weakly, amused by her shudders of distaste when Victoria recounted the little prince painstakingly placing flies in the ready maw of his plants.

Victoria quaintly described her participation in the making of early rhubarb jams. They idly debated the respective merits of French and English landscaping styles. Melbourne was attached to the more natural flow popularized a century before, whilst Victoria advocated for the more orderly geometric planting beds used in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. They planned a visit to Hatfield House, to see the espaliered figs which were the envy of the neighborhood and which Melbourne was determined to try.

They spoke of the recent structural improvements to Melbourne Hall. It was home to Fred and Adine, but Fred's relatively modest Foreign Service pension and income from the Funds were not sufficient to maintain the property, so it fell to Melbourne to underwrite all expenses. He had ordered major repairs to be done to the north wing of the hall, including new floors and ceilings. He instigated the drainage and remodeling of the large pool of water at the front of the Hall, a new weir to be built, as well as islands, stone kerbing, iron railings and other elaborate features.

Melbourne accepted Victoria's contribution towards the upkeep and expansion of Brocket Hall, but the Derbyshire property was entailed with the title and it did not feel right to spend her money on an estate she rarely visited.

Melbourne lost himself in the free-flowing conversation, cocooned as much by their low-pitched voices as by the natural intimacy of their setting. _This_ , he thought once, _is true marital intercourse, perfect companionship the bedrock of any union. Sexual congress, as delightful as it was, formed only a small part of any solid marriage. In courtship, it was all-consuming, that throbbing need, ignited by an attractive face and handsome figure. The effervescent giddiness of that first phase soon wore off, like champagne once the bottle is uncorked._

_No,_ he concluded _, to last, love must age like fine wine, growing deeper and more complex and nuanced with each passing year._ He held her against him, twisting long hanks of her hair around his hand, then untangling and plaiting again. Victoria's fingers played in the thick hair on his chest, playfully tugging to emphasize some point, and then went to his sideburns.

She wrinkled her nose, pulling at the long silver hairs. It was the fashion for younger men in that year, to sport facial thick facial hair nearly reaching the corners of the mouth, and a style of which Victoria did not approve.

"It obscures your beautiful face, Lord M," she grumbled again, jerking particularly hard so he yelped. Melbourne rolled over on top of her, pressing her against the mattress with his weight until she wiggled and squirmed. It had been a purely playful embrace that soon took another direction.

They came together without preamble, bodies so attuned that the act was accomplished without conscious thought. After, while Victoria was still making little mewling noises of satisfaction, Melbourne propped himself on his forearms.

"It's nearly dawn," he said. "We haven't had a wink of sleep."

"Mmmm….don't move yet…" Victoria purred, tightening her muscles in a futile attempt to hold him fast.

"Very well, then. Let's get up then, and go outside. We can watch the sun rise."

While Victoria tied the sash of a Chinese silk dressing gown, Melbourne pulled on a pair of trousers his usually-careful valet had left folded on a chaise. He resisted the urge to suck in his stomach muscles.

"What?" Victoria laughed at his vanity. "You are perfect and I adore every single inch of you."

"Leave the top button undone. It makes you look rather louche, in a good way of course. As if I were your mistress, and you my lover, caught sneaking into my bed."

"So depravity excites you, does it, my dear?" Melbourne rumbled.

"I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time," Victoria drawled. "That you were caught sneaking out of a lady's boudoir at daybreak."

"Ma'am, you do me an injustice. I'll have you know I was never _caught_."

They laughed together, comfortable, and Victoria stroked the outline of his manhood through the fabric of those trousers, with an air of perfect complacency. Melbourne's lips quirked in appreciation of that proprietary manner. _All_ mine, she said again, sounding pleased with the thought.

"Hush, now, we must be quiet, if we want to slip out undisturbed," Melbourne warned, holding a finger to his lips.

The grounds were enveloped in a velvety darkness only just beginning to lighten in the east. Everything around them seemed hushed and waiting in that magical hour between night and day. Only gradually did familiar shapes emerge, there a stately oak tree, here, much nearer, the straight line of a red-brick wall.

A ribbon of mist rose from the river and hovered several feet above the ground. All color was leached from the landscape, leaving only a haunting tableau in shades of grey. Melbourne was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. _Déjà vu?_ No, he realized; this was the haunting landscape of his dreams. The same, yet different. _Why_?

The answer stood beside him, in the slight figure giving off faint warmth. He felt her presence deep within, a wholeness of body, mind and spirit that distinguished this reality from the bleak solitude of those dreams.

Victoria shifted slightly, so that her shoulders and hips just touched him. Melbourne felt her lean into him and he drew her close. The air held a slight chill, enough to raise goosebumps on her skin.

_It is good_. The words came to him fully formed and Melbourne, usually so ready with a quote from some obscure source, was nonplussed. Then he remembered. _And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good._

Victoria tilted her head back, her eyes searching his. _Of course she knows my thoughts before I do. It's always been thus._

Melbourne tightened his arm around Victoria, felt her pliant form mold itself to his. She fit just so, head tucked neatly under his chin, cheek at precisely the right height to rest on his breast, rounded hips and concave belly yielding to his sharp edges. _Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh._

Melbourne was a man for whom emotion existed within the framework of language; no feeling, no matter how transient, lacked an accompanying internal dialogue. Yet just now, words failed him; anything he uttered, any conscious construct, would mar the perfect peace of the moment. It was enough to simply _be_ and bask in their shared stillness.

♛

The ladies would breakfast in their bedchambers, Victoria assumed, giving her a few undisturbed minutes with the gentlemen. Palmerston had arrived before nine, in time to take breakfast with Melbourne. Victoria, when she descended the stairway, heard the rumbling low notes of male voices coming from the library. She paused to listen, eavesdropping unabashedly.

Melbourne and his brother-in-law were engaged in their usual verbal jousting, good-natured as it was. Both men took a lively interest in foreign affairs and neither was inclined to withhold his opinion or temper an excess of passion out of false modesty. She couldn't understand the particulars of their conversation, but enjoyed the sound of their voices.

Victoria relished the moments she came upon Lord M unexpectedly and could see him as he was with others. At those times she felt an exultant thrill, composed of equal parts admiration and pride. As completely as she adored William the husband, attentive lover and doting father, she was stirred in mind and body by Melbourne the philosopher statesman. Surely a finer man never lived, a more distinguished thinker. His whimsical eloquence, the musical way in which that raspy voice conveyed elegant arguments on the most arcane of subjects, citing Plato or Socrates as though they were friends with whom he frequently dined – Victoria grasped little of what Melbourne and his friends discussed, and her own ignorance excited her. It only proved that this man, _her_ Lord M, towered above her intellectually, therefore was fully capable of guiding and protecting her. Sometimes it was quite nice, Victoria thought, to have someone to lean on, without sacrificing one's own pre-eminence.

She'd washed and dressed after their sojourn in the garden, looking forward to the day. As always after lovemaking, she felt _beautiful_. His desire for her was a physical measure of her own attractiveness. That _she_ could have such a powerful effect on a man, any man, _such_ a man, was transformative in a way she had never dared imagine as a dowdy girl.

"Henry," Victoria sang out, sashaying into the room so her skirts swung with each movement of her hips. Her handsome brother-in-law stood and bowed over her hand, his lips grazing the surface. Then he leaned forward and boldly kissed her cheek.

"Your Majesty, I hope I find you well," the big man said, eyes twinkling. Victoria liked and responded to the flirtatiousness in his manner.

They were old friends from the very first days of her reign. The three of them, Palmerston, Melbourne and Victoria, spent so much time in one another's company that the cartoonists lampooned them. _Susannah and the Elders_ had been the crudest but hardly the only depiction of a young Queen and her rakish favorites.

The tempestuous Foreign Secretary might be infuriating, in the high-handed way he circumvented her authority and rode roughshod over her insistence to be informed, but as a man Henry Temple was quite charming and impossible to dislike.

Victoria's gaze went to the leather portfolio between them on the desk. She was about to ask but thought better of it. _William will tell me, if there's anything to tell._

Emily, Melbourne's sister and Henry's wife, came in holding the hands of her niece and nephew and accompanied by her friend Miss Emily Eden and Mrs. Butler, the American actress. The children greeted their uncle with obvious pleasure.

Palmerston chivvied Liam with avuncular good humor, until the shy boy was beaming.

"And me, Uncle? Have I gotten bigger?" Lily demanded, tugging at Palmerston's hand.

"Princess, you grow prettier each time I see you," he responded extravagantly.

"I don't _care_ about being pretty, Uncle. I want to make people do as I say, like Mama. I want to be _Queen_ of the _world_!"

"Well, then, you can be both, like your Mama. She is the prettiest Queen the world has ever seen, and makes people do as she says too. Why, do you know she commands the Armies? And our Navy, the greatest in the world?"

"Mama, may I have an army too, please?" Lily instantly queried, her eyes alight with the prospect.

"We will see, my darling," Victoria said, having learned to choose her battles wisely. "Let Uncle finish his breakfast, and then if he has time you may show him your plants."

At a workbench at the back of the glass conservatory Liam demonstrated the remarkable properties of an odd,

unprepossessing little plant. He produced a glass jar filled with insects frantically beating their wings against the side, and removed two of the unfortunates. No sooner did he set the first of these on a leaf of his plant, than the serrated edges closed around it.

"All boys are bloodthirsty little heathens, my dear," Emily whispered.

Victoria smiled tightly in return, finding Liam's new obsession quite distasteful. She hung back, permitting Liam and Lily to take the lead in showing off their section of the kitchen garden. Melbourne fell into place beside her.

"Henry has a matter to discuss with me," he murmured as he walked, hands clasped behind his back. Victoria arched a brow and looked at him questioningly. "There's no time now, but it concerns the Subcontinent and our troublesome maharini. He has some scheme in mind to bring her to heel, and claims to want my opinion."

Victoria snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Henry?" she said in a tone heavy with disbelief. "Since when does Henry take advice from anyone?"

"You're right, I'm sure. _Endorsement_ is more likely, of whatever outrageous proposition he has in mind. He'll tell me more on his return from Broadlands. They will all stay the weekend and then Em intends to remain, and send the ladies back to London. Emily – Miss Eden – seems to be aware. If I can, I'll speak to her privately before they leave and see what she can tell me."

They said no more on the subject, catching up to the others. Instead of proceeding directly to the garden, Lily had pulled her uncle along to the stables and the rest were left to follow.

"He's _mine_ , Uncle!" she proclaimed at the top of her lungs, casting a defiant glance to her mother. "All mine. Isn't he, Papa?"

Melbourne, looking sheepish, attempted to shrug off her boasting.

"I did not say that," he whispered to Victoria. She knew he would not openly challenge their child, but rather find a way around the issue that didn't involve exacerbating Lily's volatile temper.

"Elizabeth, come away at once. That is not your horse yet, and won't be if you don't conduct yourself more becomingly."

The little girl's eyes narrowed and she seemed to weigh her options. _A good beginning,_ Victoria thought _, if she can control that unfortunate tendency toward angry outbursts._ Recalling her own childhood storms and the fearful temper she herself had displayed, Victoria waited to see which way the wind would blow.

"Very well!" Lily said finally, the dignity of her phrasing at odds with a four year-old's lisp. She lifted her chin and walked away without a backward glance. _Well done!_ Victoria wanted to say, nearly as much as she wanted to smack her daughter for impertinence.

"She's your daughter through and through," Melbourne said in her ear. Victoria was momentarily annoyed, but the feeling ebbed when she saw the tenderness in his eyes.

"If I had been fortunate enough to have a father who indulged me, as much as you indulge her…" she let the sentiment go unfinished. _Who would I have been, if instead of Sir John Conroy, whose tyranny made me strong, I had been coddled and protected by a doting father?_ _Would I have been fit to be queen at 18? And if I were not queen, who would I be?_

Things all happen for a reason, Victoria decided, and firmly put such fruitless speculation aside. This is the way my life is meant to be, and nothing on earth could have changed it.

* * *

Inspiration for the children's interest in gardening comes from the Cambridge children. "Prince George has developed an interesting new obsession in lockdown, as he's been spending more time in the garden. She revealed that Prince George is obsessed with Venus fly traps, a popular carnivorous plan. While at home the three children have been growing tomato plants..." www.express.co.uk Jun 28, 2020"


	26. Chapter 26

Maharaja Duleep Singh Entering the Palace of Lahore Palace

* * *

The charm of country pursuits, Melbourne mused, bore an inverse correlation to the length of time one had to indulge them. Brocket Hall's nearness to London meant an easy journey back and forth, something few country homes could boast, certainly none of the Crown possessions. It was not the only reason both Melbourne and Victoria considered it their primary residence, but the convenient location certainly didn't hurt.

Only a handful of servants went back and forth with them, and an equally modest retinue. Mounted officers from the Household cavalry riding fore and aft, were not nearly as recognizable out of parade kit, and their close protection officers were anonymous in the plain, serviceable attire of any upper-class servant.

Melbourne rode on horseback beside his brother-in-law; the showy new brougham bearing Palmerston's crest contained the ladies, Emily Eden and Frances Butler. _Odd bedfellows_ , was Palmerston's muttered comment, accompanied by a wink. Melbourne agreed with a laugh. Emily Eden, from a good family, erudite and well-traveled, and Mrs. Butler, once and future stage actress, had apparently found some common ground, as they had their heads together chattering intently each time Melbourne glanced in their direction.

They had left the Hall for London as soon as they returned from Sunday services, only stopping long enough to take refreshment before setting out. The Broadlands party was waiting, so that they could set out together. Victoria had not invited them to ride with her. Perhaps, if it had been Miss Eden alone, she might have done so, but not even the copy of Fanny's memoir which was so enthralling, could render her an acceptable companion in the bright light of day. Instead she sweetly implored her sister-in-law to abandon her own carriage on the pretext of sharing the care of her youngest nephew.

Melbourne might have grinned when he heard such an implausible excuse, except that Victoria called for Freddy's nurse as well. The older children had already been seated between nursery maids and footmen, and might have protested such favoritism if they'd been given time. Instead, Victoria's small gloved hand waved from the window and the coachman obediently started his team.

Melbourne and Palmerston talked as they rode. They discussed the upcoming week's business in the Commons. Hearing Brougham introduce Mr. Owen's petition promised to be mildly interesting, Palmerston opined. Melbourne refrained from comment, his past flippancy concerning the folly of any attempt to educate the poor against their interest and will, having been quoted out of context on several occasions. He agreed wholeheartedly that hearing the Leith Harbor Bill covered clause by clause in excruciating detail threatened to be tedious in the extreme, and Earl Grey's formal public imprimatur for the new state of peace and prosperity in New Zeeland would be the bright spot at the end of the day.

Hearing his outspoken brother-in-law's sober, almost pious remarks, Melbourne suspected that it was only a matter of time before Harry got to his real point. He was not disappointed.

"I take it you've discussed with her the matter we spoke of?"

"Bringing the young maharaja to England, as a hostage to guarantee his mother's withdrawal from public mischief-making?"

"William, William! That's not at all the case. Merely, taking the future ruler of his province into safekeeping, for the sake of peace in his realm. The boy will be fostered with the utmost care, and given the same education as any English boy of his rank and standing. Harsh treatment would be entirely contradictory. We want him to return to take his rightful place, entirely sympathetic to our way of life."

Melbourne smirked. "Have it as you will. We intend to remove a boy of tender years from the care of his mother and take him halfway round the world until he reaches his majority. The Queen knows she can do nothing except advise and warn, but neither does she want her name associated with the business if anything goes amiss."

"Fair enough. She'll receive the boy, when he arrives? Invite him to spend time at Court with the Prince and Princess? He's a likely lad, by all accounts, and only three years older than Liam. If he can be educated with the Prince of Wales – join the classroom and take lessons with the others?"

Melbourne's great-nieces and nephews and the sons and daughters of a few senior Household retainers took lessons in the Royal apartments. Victoria had been alone in her schoolroom except for John Conroy's daughters, and wanted her own children to have same-age companions. Liam, when he was older, would receive special tutoring by Oxford deans, on constitutional law, theology and history while his erstwhile companions went on to Eton, but for now at least they all studied and played together.

"We didn't get that far," Melbourne said drily. "Allowing you to proceed with your plan was quite enough capitulation for one day. I know I need not remind you how badly it would go, for the Crown and our presence abroad, if any harm should befall the boy – should he take sick, in our very different climate, or the food not agree with him or –"

"We intend to take the greatest care, and I think you'll agree that that the benefit by far outweighs any negligible risk. Jind Kaur, deprived of her excuse to stir up trouble, will be exiled to Sheikhupura with a pension of 48,000. The betrothal she arranged between Duleep and General Attariwalla's daughter will be null and void and we will make ourselves peace, not to mention a chance to mould the young maharaja of India's most populous and prosperous province. 'Give me a child until he is seven and I will show you the man.'"

Melbourne recognized the writing on the wall. They would do what they would do, the powerful, unassailable East India Company.

"Didn't you have it as your goal once, to reduce the power of the Company?"

"More than merely reduce. The Company considers itself the equal of the State and they _must_ be brought to heel. They might think this scheme is to their advantage, which is precisely why I want the boy at Court and not with a governor of their choosing."

Melbourne thought he understood. "And you anticipate no real opposition to this, from the boy's mother?"

"She's a woman, and doubtless is much attached to her son. That is why we need Her Majesty's mandate. Victoria is well-known to be a tender, devoted mother, and if she takes the boy under her protection it will be the guarantee Jind Kaur needs. Not to mention, if she abandons her scheme to make the most powerful Sikh general her ally by betrothing their children, it will be because she thinks she's found a far more powerful ally to take his place."

"Ah, I do see," Melbourne drawled. "So this has been put to her, not as a virtual kidnapping, but as a treaty between two powerful women."

"Something like that."

Palmerston let the subject drop and Melbourne was happy to oblige. His thoughts drifted back to their all-too-brief holiday.

They'd spent much time out of doors, so much time that Victoria's creamy translucent skin had taken on a burnished glow. When she'd looked into her mirror only that morning, she had uttered a little shriek of dismay.

"I look quite – quite –" she had sputtered, her hands frantically unscrewing the tops of various glass bottles on her dressing table.

"Quite lovely," Melbourne had said quickly, knowing what was expected of him.

A few new freckles dotted her nose and her cheeks were prettily flushed, but it was the skin on her shoulders and chest which caused her dismay. A light golden tan, scarcely noticeable by lamplight, followed exactly the line of the bathing dress she'd worn to swim. Now that the children were older, four and six, she no longer ventured out in only her shift. Instead, her maid had stitched together a costume that would be scandalous at Brighton or one of the public beaches, a light lawn chemise and drawers. A proper bathing suit would have been constructed of heavy fabric, buttoned to the neck and covering the full length of her arms. The price of that comfort, convenience and freedom of movement was this unbecomingly tinted skin. At least, Melbourne qualified, high society fashion would consider it unbecoming. Ladies of quality must look as though they never saw the light of day. He himself thought that dusting of color enhanced her looks, and told her so with the utmost sincerity.

"Well, then, that's all there is to say about _that_ ," Victoria said, rising and coming toward him. "You know as well as I do what Mama will think, but she need not see if I keep a light shawl about me. And I believe – I _hope_ – that I've gotten rid of any of my ladies whom are not trustworthy. As long as _you_ don't find it unappealing, that I'm as brown as a hops-picker…"

She had turned her face up to his, lips pursed, inviting a kiss. Melbourne had looked down at that dear heart-shaped face, with its tender upper and sensuously full lower lips, and complied.

"Er…there is one more thing. Nothing to trouble your head about, but forewarned is forearmed, and knowing, you'll be able to soothe our _petite reine_ 's temper, should she hear rumors…"

"What?" Melbourne asked sharply, his reverie disrupted.

"There might be some whispers – and I don't have to tell _you_ their origin – that Jind Kaur is putting it about that her son is betrothed to…"

Palmerston's normal speaking voice was, if anything, excessively loud, but it trailed off into an unintelligible mutter. Nonetheless, Melbourne understood him perfectly.

" _That_ is one rumor which had better not reach the Queen's ears. Had better not reach our shores at all. Surely you don't think for one moment – she's your _niece_ , Harry, for God's sake – betrothed to a heathen from the subcontinent! Did any man encourage her to imagine such a thing? Jind Kaur, I mean?"

"No, no, of course not!" Palmerston said in a rush, holding up his hand palm-out. "She's a schemer. I don't know if she thinks it herself – you'd be surprised at just how arrogant these upper-caste Indians are – but she's not above using the rumor to her advantage. I just wanted you to be prepared."

♛

Victoria sat at her dressing table, in the sovereign's bedchamber at Windsor. They had gone there, rather than Buckingham, because of construction work underway to expand the Royal Apartments.

Freshly bathed and dressed, her creamy rounded shoulders were covered with a dusting of powder. She looked pert and very pretty, almost absurdly youthful for a woman of eight-and-twenty, Melbourne thought, in a summer gown of some lightweight stuff he had not seen before.

" _Madras_ , it is called. I received yards and yards of it as a gift from Sir Frederick Currie's wife. They weave the patterns by hand. Lady Currie writes that it makes the dreadful heat bearable."

Melbourne admired the red, white and blue tartan plaid, to gratify Victoria, but privately he thought that the white cotton lace trim against the attractive sun-tanned skin of her cleavage was the most attractive feature of her dress. She wore a modest sapphire on a thin silver chain and simple hoop earrings.

"You might be mistaken for a girl in her first season, ma'am. It makes me feel quite depraved," Melbourne smirked, showing her a stage villain's leer, and bent to that tempting hollow in her clavicle.

Victoria had come to him in her dressing gown, and sat on the edge of an armchair while he shaved himself, stripped to the waist. She liked watching him shave, her eyes never leaving him. Melbourne had never considered himself an especially vain man, but it was impossible not to preen – just a trifle – when one's pretty young wife took such pleasure in watching one's _toilette_.

While he carefully worked the razor over the contours of his face, Melbourne had repeated Palmerston's warning. Her reaction was anticlimactic.

"Stuff and nonsense!" was all she said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. "They are children – very _young_ children – and if any boy of nine contemplates marriage, it's more than I ever heard. Our Lily is four, and judging by the reactions of her cousins – our Fanny's boys, or little Em's, or Leopold's – is considered more of a pest than most girls of her age. Probably because she insists on besting them at all their boy's games."

"Well, then," Melbourne said, relieved that such business need go no further. Perhaps childhood was different in the East, but what Victoria said was no more than good common sense here. And it wouldn't be for long – no matter what Palmerston thought, they could not in good conscience keep a boy from his mother for a full decade, no matter what she'd done over there, or how much trouble she caused.

"Do you want me at your Privy Council meeting this week? If I can be spared, I'll meet Hardinge's envoy rather. We'll hammer out the details and get him on his way back. If they're going to bring the child to England this year yet, it must be before November."

"The risk of a channel crossing any later –"

"Precisely. The Company intends to put him up at Claridge's with a minder. Harry and his clique intend to wrest him out of Company control and place him with a foster family."

Victoria frowned. " The boy is a prince in his own country. He cannot be raised by a merchant's family. Perhaps the Spencers or…" Victoria's voice had trailed off. "Or perhaps it is more fitting, that he be raised with our own children."

"No," Melbourne had answered firmly. He would not have this foreign prince in their nursery. That was a little too close for comfort. 

"Shall we go down?" he asked, extending his arm. Victoria rose and laid her hand on his sleeve, the very picture of decorum. 

"I suppose it's time," she sighed. "I am expecting a severe scold from Mama. You _know_ she'll see the spots on my skin, and accuse me at once of forgetting my dignity and my complexion."


	27. Chapter 27

* * *

"Oh, Mama, not _that_ kind of actress. Miss Kemble – Mrs. Butler now, although I believe she intends to resume use of her maiden name – read Shakespeare on tour in the Americas. She received the education of a lady."

Victoria looked down momentarily, trying to recapture her train of thought. She sat at the little escritoire in her small private sitting room, her journal open before her.

The Duchess of Kent had presented herself whilst Victoria was still in her pegnoir, eager to hear the salacious details firsthand. "They are saying an _actress_ dined at your table!" Were the first words out of her mouth.

Victoria didn't bother to ask who _they_ were. Servants, she had no doubt.

"Nevertheless, it is not proper that an actress should be received at Court. And one that is soon to be divorced, no less. Why, you may as well invite that Norton creature. At least _she_ had the good sense to meet with you privately, away from the eyes and ears of the world."

_Hardly the world,_ Victoria wanted to say. _And hardly the same thing at all. Mrs. Kemble was not my husband's mistress, the supposed dirty details of their affair printed in every London paper._

"Mama, you may judge for yourself whether she conducts herself as a lady. I plan to invite her to dine at Windsor, and then read for us. You might find her as charming as I do; certainly, she is a witty and well-spoken woman, and will entertain us with stories of her life in America."

Victoria hadn't decided, until that very moment, whether she would extend the covetted invitation. But why not? This was no longer the eighteenth century, when actresses and prostitutes plied their trade interchangeably. The famed Sheridan family had done much to render the theatre respectable entertainment for even the highest sticklers, and Miss Kemble's own aunt, the renowned Sarah Siddons, had demonstrated in the previous generation that a woman could be an actress without losing her high moral character.

She watched her mother's expression for subtle changes, and was satisfied that there would be no further argument. In fact, the Duchess's eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"As you say, Drina. Now, let me tell you about…" Victoria closed her diary and went to sit beside her mother on a little perriwinkle velvet settee, settling in for a cozy sharing of all the gossip she'd missed during her stay at Brocket Hall.

Melbourne found them there a short time later. He strode in unannounced, slowing when he saw the Duchess. Victoria looked at her lap to hide her smile, amused and admiring, at the easy charm with which he greeted her mother. He had won the Duchess over long since, and had been instrumental in persuading Victoria to let go of her old adolescent petulance. Her mother's flirtatious manner, switched on like a lamp in the presence of any attractive male, burned brightly when she spoke to this son-in-law who was nearer her own age than her daughter's. It was the old familiar coquettishness that Victoria had found so infuriating and distasteful as a child, and her feelings on _that_ score at least had not changed one iota.

"Mama, you must excuse me now. I must dress for the day." She meant it as a dismissal, and her mother took it as such, rising promptly. She laid her hand on Melbourne's arm and showed Victoria a smug little smile.

"I must ask William to remain. There are – things – we need to go over, before I meet with the Lord Chamberlain at nine." Victoria returned her mother's smile, lifting a brow. _I'm not so easily bested, Mama, so_ there!

♛

Victoria scrutinized her reflection in the mirror, considering whether her gown was entirely appropriate for morning wear. It had the new pagoda sleeves, which seemed overly fussy, and would doubtless be ink-stained if she did not take care. But the tight bodice which ended in a V made her torso and waistline appear to advantage. White lace trimmed the heart-shaped neckline, added at her specific request. Too often her secretaries and ministers stood at her shoulder, looking down at some document on her desk, and she had no wish to give them more than a glimpse of her cleavage.

"Lovely," Melbourne said, his lips so close to her ear that she felt the warmth of his breath. His tone thrilled her so she felt a sudden roiling liquid heat in her belly.

"Sevres blue _,_ " she murmured, pretending her attention was still on the mirror. "You told me once blue was your least-favorite color, but –"

"-but I most certainly changed my mind." Victoria was pleasantly startled by his touch. He ran his palms up her sides, stopping at her breasts. The sensation of touch was diffused by layers of fabric, so his fingers were tantalizingly feather-light. She felt a sudden throbbing ache and was embarassed by her own need, wanted to pull herself away and regain a modicum of composure. _What I want is to feel his hands on me, to -_

As if he knew exactly what she was feeling, Melbourne smirked. He bent as though to take formal leave, and pressed his lips to her clavicle.

"Think of me? Miss me a little?" His voice was husky, and he cleared his throat, suddenly looking boyishly sheepish and uncertain. Victoria caressed his cheek tenderly. She wet her lips and swallowed hard.

"You know I will." Victoria attempted to collect her thoughts, reluctant to disturb the heady intimacy of the moment. "You will see Lord Dalhousie?"

"I will."

Melbourne went on to talk about the appointments he had that day and for the rest of the week, his drawling voice deliberately pragmatic. Dalhousie had been lobbying for appointment as the next provincial Indian governor, speaking at length to every influential body in London about the reforms he intended to improve the lives of Indian subjects as well as increase British control. There were critics – Miss Eden amongst them – who cautioned restraint, warning that reforms undertaken with little to no input from the Indian people would add to the resentment of British policies.

Victoria smoothed her skirts and picked up a sheaf of papers. She walked with Melbourne down the corridor, listening to him as he spoke of the other matters to which he would take an interest, whether real or duty-inspired. In the House, he expected to listen in when the matter of a Major Cogan was debated. Cogan had been employed by Lord Palmerston at that time to negotiate a treaty with the Imaum of Muscat, and had of his own volition involved himself in the affairs of the Rajah of Sattara. Formal complaints had been lodged by the administrative authorities, and an investigation was underway.

"India! Does it seem as though India is always the topic of conversation in one way or another? Why is that, Lord M?"

"Possibly something to do with the East India Company's balance sheet. Their income last year exceeded that of the entire Kingdom, by a factor of ten or more. When money on that scale is made, it will excite much interest."

Victoria's eyes widened. "The Company has more men under arms, greater resources and greater power and authority than the Crown. I can't like that."

"Nobody does, except those whose fortunes have been made on their shares."

"Oh, I told Mama that we will receive Miss Kemble at Court. I thought a dinner and entertainment, when she can make up one of a number of guests." Victoria saw the quick flash of humor in his eyes. "And don't say it. I did _not_ decide to invite her only to put Mama's nose out of joint. Besides, Mama is looking forward to meeting her."

♛

> _Mrs. Elizabeth Dwight Sedgewick_
> 
> _20 July 1847_
> 
> _Dear Elizabeth_
> 
> _I begin this letter from the country, where I find myself a weekend guest at Broadlands, the home of our Foreign Secretary. You remember Viscount P – a big, ruddy-faced, handsome man with a shock of overlong blond hair and bright blue eyes?_
> 
> _It is not he of whom I wish to write, but those illustrious hosts at whose table I was invited to dine. Lord M was an old acquaintance, whom I encountered on many occasions at Lady H’s salon and then in Caroline Sheridan’s drawing room. All the world knows now of the heights to which he is risen, and I confess to having harbored some doubt whether he would condescend to acknowledge our previous acquaintance._
> 
> _I need not have been concerned, for both he and Her Majesty condescended to receive me and treat me as a friend of long standing. You asked me to tell you how I found him. He is in excellent health and looks, and as at home in a palace as ever he was at the house on Green Street or dear Elizabeth H-’s table. Of course I did not have a card then to call at the palace – more on that later, when I see you – but at M’s country house the both of them conducted themselves entirely without pretense. If not for the unmistakable gold-braided coats of the Household Cavalry, one would not guess there was Royalty in residence._
> 
> _You will recall I saw HM open Parliament when she was newly crowned, and then, for all her youth, she was splendid. That aura remains, even in circumstances entirely informal and without pretense. More remarkable is the perfect amity between them. Never have I witnessed such a degree of understanding in a marriage! They do not go on as lovers of course, each of them conduct themselves with propriety. During the evening I and others spent in their company, as host and hostess they scarcely betrayed by word or gesture the nature of the bond between them. And yet – and yet, how can I say? I was not unaffected, nor were the others present. The connexion between them is palpable, and left me feeling quite envious and bereft, for in my unhappy case and that of most of the rest of my circle, a romantic attachment so strong and true is quite the stuff of dramatic legend._
> 
> _When we see one another and can converse tête-à-tête I will whisper in your ear what I observed unseen, when they thought they were alone in an anteroom. It proves beyond all doubt – if doubters remain – that theirs is a true love match, and one we must all aspire to, at least in our dreams._
> 
> _Fanny_


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

Fanny preferred to spend her mornings in the coffee house, a reprieve from the narrow dark room she occupied at a storied London hotel. Her funds were not unlimited – quite the opposite, in fact – and it was all she could afford. Things were not so dire that she was forced to consider seeking accommodations in a questionable establishment or one that catered to provincial bumpkins. Grillon's would have been more to her taste, but the venerable Pulteney retained some of its glamor from those days when it accommodated such celebrated personages as the Russian Tsar and his sister. Located on the west corner of Bolton Street at 105 Piccadilly, it was an easy walk to Green and Hyde Parks, where she could promenade in the afternoon, part of her campaign to see and be seen.

If Fanny was to be successful in finding investors willing to back her return to the London stage, she had to appear to advantage, furthering the illusion that her return was triumphant and not driven by necessity.

Punctually at eight o'clock each morning, the smartly dressed figure would nod politely and be led to her preferred table. There, she would accept a Spartan breakfast of tea and dry toast and commence writing in the cloth-bound notebooks she carried.

Acting on the stage had never been her first choice of career, but it was the family business. The Kembles were theatrical aristocracy, second – in some minds, although not in their own – to the Sheridans. Fanny's father had headed the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, and she herself had received the education of a young lady, was fluent in French, German, and Italian, and went to a French finishing school. She had once met Sir Walter Scott, the most celebrated novelist of his day; Lady Caroline Lamb was the object of her schoolgirl worship, although that lady had retired to the country by the time Fanny discovered _Glenarvon_ and the unbearably romantic saga of Lady Lamb and Lord Byron. Young Fanny had every hope of earning her own living with her pen, but to save her family from financial ruin she had stepped onto the stage. Her success was instant, but Fanny was far prouder of the commercial success realized by her first attempt at authorship. _Francis I_ had earned a respectable sum in sales and established her reputation as a writer.

Unfortunately – and that was too mild a word – she had thrown away her enviable position in both worlds, publishing and the theatre. Pierce Butler had pursued her relentlessly, with his dizzying protestations of love.

 _And that put a period to all my pretentions_ , she had no need to remind herself. America was a crude place, rough and without the refinements she was used to. The roads, the servants, the food and what passed for society manners were all crude imitations of their British counterparts. Worse, the Americans prided themselves on their own vulgarity and cared nothing for the customs they had cast off.

What came after did not bear dwelling on. Her last hope, that at least her experiences would make a book, were dashed when her husband flatly refused to consider the publication of her memoirs as written and demanded that whole sections be purged. When it finally saw print, that book spelled the end of her marriage.

Those pages, documenting her time on the rice plantations of Sea Island, describing the barbarity of slavery in vivid, stomach-churning detail, might be adapted for the stage. Abolition was suddenly all the rage, society matrons holding fund-raising salons and disaffected American preachers invited to speak, and Fanny thought that with adequate financial backing she could craft a near-Shakespearean tragedy.

It was not to be. One after another, her prospects told her, with varying degrees of regret, that an afternoon _salon_ was all well and good, and a guest speaker enlivened Sunday services, but nobody went to the theatre to view ugliness, depravity and degradation. Without a hero, a heroine, a satisfactory denouement, there could be no viable play. And without an uplifting message or heart-wrenching romance, something to capture the imagination, there could be no audience.

When one door closes, another one opens, and so it had always been in Fanny's life. Accepting the invitation to Royal Ascot out of boredom had thrust her into what would surely be the most brilliant achievement of her life.

_Victoria and Melbourne_

Not _them,_ of course; not in so many words. She would revisit an earlier era and christen her sovereign Eleanor, heiress to the Duke of Aquitaine. In that distant time, the rich province was an independent state, and its young female ruler took the throne at eighteen. _Her_ Eleanor would share certain unalterable features of the original, better known figure, but in an alternative history she would promptly fall in love with an advisor some 40 years her senior. Everyone would understand of whom she actually wrote. Time and place would differ, but the salient truth would be one she had already glimpsed.

To write this masterpiece, both book and stage play, Fanny would have to return to the States. There she was a celebrity, able to earn enough to sustain her with carefully chosen appearances. But first, she would wheedle as many royal invitations as she dared, and carefully write down _all_ she saw and heard. Fanny's adventurous life and encyclopedic memories could fill a dozen volumes, but the gap in her experiences could be filled only by first-hand observation of that most foreign of conditions, a happy marriage. Something only the Queen and her Melbourne could provide.

However she structured the intervening narrative, Fanny could already see, in her mind's eye, how the saga would end. Lit by a single spotlight against black draping, as the music swelled, an actress chosen for her small stature and very large _presence_ would fall to her knees center-stage, wailing and keening with grief when she lost the love of her life.

_Self-contained, with an economy of movement. Neat as a pin, nondescript at first glance. No beauty until she was lit from within by a radiance that only appeared in proximity to him. But presence, oh yes, presence, that magnetism which couldn't be trained and owed nothing to perfection of face and figure._

Fanny herself had this quality, and did not discount its appeal. It was the only attribute which raised the Queen out of the ordinary. Melbourne was different. He was one of those rare men of whom it was said, "he lit up the room." Melbourne was a comely creature, no less now than when she had first laid eyes on him a decade before. But it wasn't his handsome features or manly physique which drew people to him, nor was it any brilliance of manner. His own brother-in-law was larger than life; Lord Palmerston's voice boomed and his very presence seemed to draw all the oxygen from the air. Palmerston would occupy center stage in any theatre; his thundering oratory silenced the House. No, Fanny discounted any common quality. Melbourne's milieu was a smaller setting, dinner table, drawing room, settee. He loved to talk and his ideas were whimsical, but he did not _command_ attention. If anything, he tended towards segue and stutter. His voice was raspy, sometimes hoarse, but always filled with suppressed laughter, slightly self-deprecating, a man who knew how well humor offset tragedy and levity countered any tendency to dwell on the darker aspects of life. He listened well, those beautiful melancholy grey eyes fixed on whomever addressed him. He made one feel worthy of his interest, as though he had all the time in the world and would count it well spent listening to you.

At any rate, Fanny knew writing Melbourne would be easy. He was famed for his effortless charm, and a winning charisma that owed nothing to artifice. But Victoria—every time Fanny wrestled with the character of her heroine, she came up short. There was nothing in that brisk, hard-working little woman other than that indefinable _presence_ to guide her pen. No particular charm, although Victoria was pleasant enough; if anything, she seemed half-distracted whenever they spoke. As if she was perpetually waiting for Melbourne to bring her to life. Fanny knew it would be the greatest challenge she faced, to make her heroine sympathetic, worthy of her hero's devotion. In the short time spent in Victoria's presence, she had seen that the Queen knew her own mind. She was no shrinking violet, her mind no dutiful blank slate. She did not look to her husband to decide her opinions. And yet…and yet, it was only in Melbourne's presence that her _spirit_ came alive. And therein lie the tragedy at the core of any great romance.

♛

Melbourne used his cane to knock on the carriage, signaling the coachman to stop. It was a fine day and he wanted to walk the rest of the way. His route took him through the park, and it was pleasant to greet passersby, watching their eyes widen slightly in recognition.

Once, he had been _that_ Melbourne, beloved of the common people, taxi drivers and fishmongers and warehousemen, for all the wrong reasons. How they had thronged to see him on trial, cheering him when he walked into court! Now he was only the former Prime Minister and incumbent consort of their Queen. Then, they had taken pride in the most salacious accusations, Londoners to a man – and woman – admiring a rake. Now, it was a different time and a changed moral climate. His fidelity to their girl-queen won their approval, his tale of redemption a tour de force.

Either way, it amused him – the fickle public and their insistent prying into the life of their betters. It was as good a reason as any to retain a figurehead monarch, he thought, a life lived vicariously behind palace walls. Such idle musing made him laugh out loud, and the stout female hawking eel pies laughed in return. Melbourne twirled his crystal-topped walking stick and tipped his tall hat as though greeting a well-born lady.

The Pulteney Hotel came into view, and just beyond, the coffee house where Fanny Kemble waited.

"Lord Melbourne," Fanny said in greeting as she rose and sketched the semblance of a curtsy. Close too, Melbourne could see the smallpox scars which marked her complexion, but they did not detract from her beauty. If anything, they disrupted the boredom of perfection and made her countenance arresting.

"Mrs. Butler," he returned, looking around for her maid. There was _always_ a maid; no lady, much less one clinging precariously to the fringes of polite society, would meet a gentleman alone. No females occupied the other tables, and the males in their cheap suits were hidden behind the morning's newspapers.

"Shall we take a table out of doors?" Melbourne suggested. "Take advantage of the clear skies while they last?"

His own protection officer, agent of Cameron's, now Bedford's, secret service who accompanied him everywhere, would suffice as chaperone, at an open-air table adjacent the rattling traffic of Piccadilly Street.

Fanny gathered up her things and preceded him out the door. Once established at a table shaded by striped umbrella, Melbourne flicked a finger and the somber bodyguard rose to fetch a waiter.

Without preamble, Fanny began. She succinctly described her situation, blessed with many influential friends and few resources, and her pressing need to re-establish a career. Melbourne listened, expecting a petition, and was not disappointed. It was easier to answer than most.

Her Majesty would be more than willing to host a recital, to be attended by the cream of society. Yes; Her Majesty would condescend to grant a Royal Warrant, giving Miss Kemble the right to claim she held the title _By Appointment, Dramatist to Her Majesty_.

It was little enough to ask and grant, Victoria had said. Melbourne cared little one way or the other, but if it was Victoria's idea he was pleased enough to help an old friend. Naming Caroline Norton Poet Laureate, now _that_ petition, presented by Sidney Herbert, had been swiftly turned down. Victoria had, it was true, suggested that Emily Eden would be a more suitable and deserving candidate than Fanny, but Emily demurred. She had no need of income and, like any lady of her station abhorred publicity. Her little books of fiction were written solely to amuse a wide circle of friends, and her travel journals distributed privately.

Fanny would do her readings at Court, and the Royal Theatre for a wider audience. She would receive the honors and return to America, where she was lionized and the patina of royal patronage would double her fees.

It was settled, except to set the dates. Melbourne idly wondered why Fanny had thought it necessary to make her plea face-to-face, but it really mattered little. He supposed, if there must be a reason, that Fanny had arranged to be seen with him. It was all part of the need for publicity that was an integral part of the performing arts. He had other stops to make, and there were worse ways to spend a few minutes than sitting across from a beautiful woman on a fine summer's day. Melbourne resolved to enjoy himself and the company he was in, and deftly turned the conversation in another direction. He had more hours to fill, more meetings to attend, but half his attention wandered ahead. He was already thinking of those delicious late hours when he and Victoria could go into a room and close the door and they would talk over the events of the day.


	29. Chapter 29

"How do I answer Uncle Leopold?"

The question had been asked before but Melbourne, smirking over the sleek brown head, had not bothered with a response.

They stood in a long window, watching the steadily falling rain. His chin rested comfortably atop her head, his arms folded around her midsection.

The letter in question was the third in a week, each one beginning with a protestation of longing for the sight of his dear niece and ending with a suggestion she make famed thespian Fanny Kemble one of her traveling party. Leopold affected an arch style which set Melbourne's teeth on edge when Victoria read his words aloud.

"My little love, there's nothing to say. Extend the invitation if you wish –have Bowles send round a note."

General Sir George Bowles was Deputy Master of the Household, and bore immediate responsibility for the myriad details of Her Majesty's travel abroad. It fell to him to determine which of the Queen's Ladies and Melbourne's Gentlemen would accompany the Royal Family.

"I would not for anything have dear Aunt Louisa uncomfortable…"

Melbourne understood, and his chest rumbled with a silent chuckle. Victoria was delightfully uninhibited in her own physicality, but disapproved of the _affairs d'amore_ pursued all around her. That puritanical streak always surprised him, reminded him that she represented a generation forty years' distant from his. Human nature didn't change, but in the past thirty years he'd seen the frank hedonism of the Regency years replaced by this new buttoned up prudishness. Sex was, for all intents and purposes, pushed underground by a new middle-class sensibility which permeated every aspect of society.

"Sweetheart, Leopold would hardly depend on you to procure his _chère-amie_. Nor can he believe that all actresses are fruit ripe for the…er…plucking."

 _Actress_ , like _opera dancer_ , was long used interchangeably, to describe fair young Cyprians, pretty nobodies who used their looks to obtain a wealthy protector. Gradually, that understanding expanded to accord a measure of respect to ambitious, hardworking dramatists with genuine talent and the determination to pursue a career in theatre. Fanny's own aunt, Sarah Siddons, had demonstrated that a woman could be an actress without losing her high moral character.

Victoria drew his folded arms more tightly around her and leaned her weight into him. Melbourne sighed happily, as content as he'd ever been, drowsy yet not inclined to forfeit their tranquility for anything as mundane as sleep. The room behind them was awash in golden candlelight, an oasis against the inclement weather outside. Holding Victoria closely, watching as occasional gusts drove rain against the windowpane, Melbourne was lulled into a dreamlike state.

And just like that, in the blink of an eye, he felt the world begin to spin. It was not a physical sensation, or not entirely; rather, disorientation and a vertiginous tilt of perception, faster-than-light succession of thoughts, images ( _memories?_ ) superimposed one atop the other. Events, people, places passed in the blink of an eye, a dizzying momentary inability to be certain of time and place. Just as quickly as the sensation overtook him, it receded, leaving in its wake an emotion sharper than grief that threatened to drive him to his knees.

"Darling, you're cold," Victoria said when he shuddered. She turned neatly in his arms, tugging his hand. "I felt you shiver."

"Someone walked over my grave." Melbourne had intended the remark as no more than whimsy, but as soon as he'd spoken he wanted to take back the words. An old nursery story? A fable? No; Jonathan Swift, and its meaning too close for comfort.

He permitted Victoria to lead him to bed and tuck him in like a child. She climbed up beside him, not even pausing to say her prayers. They had made love earlier – the musky-sweet scent of their passion lingered – but Melbourne debated another attempt, not from desire but to draw comfort from her body.

Victoria climbed onto the bed and settled herself beside him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Then, as if she'd intuited his wish, her hand found him under the quilt. Her touch was gentle, knowing, as she brought him to life.

"Oh William, I had _such_ an enjoyable day!" Victoria sighed, settling into a comfortable position. "Shall we go together another time, to visit the shops?"

Without waiting for a response, her voice pitched low, her tone intimate, she proceeded to tell him about her day.

She had taken advantage of a rare freedom from commitments to venture into the City _incognito_. She and Lily, accompanied by only a single Lady-in-Waiting, had explored the shops along Bond Street and paid a visit to the Pantheon Bazaar. Victoria described the stylish yellow barouche with tufted blue velvet cushions and not a single royal crest. Melbourne felt no inclination to move at all, and only shifted once, to pinch out the flickering bedside candle.

She enumerated their purchases, cheap gewgaws, ribbons and a garish Spanish shawl. Lily had chosen, from the stalls they passed, cheap trinkets for each of her brothers and, for herself, and Victoria laughed when she spoke of the chirping canary in its wicker cage which their daughter only grudgingly relinquished to a footman.

"I'd like nothing better than to see these wonders, except perhaps that the two of us together might defeat the purpose of anonymity." Melbourne's voice sounded gravelly, almost harsh, to his own ears, as when he'd awakened from a too-deep sleep. He felt obligated to say something, only to demonstrate his attention. It was unnecessary, he knew, knowing that with her words she was soothing him to sleep.

The next thing he knew, it was morning. Her maid had come in to open the draperies and Victoria, in her wrapper, leaned over him. Her small warm hand pushed back the hair from his eyes.

"Stay abed, William. I will see my Household officers, and sign a packet of commissions. There is – " her blue eyes narrowed in thought "- a bishopric to assign, and some few other duties, but nothing for which I require your assistance."

Melbourne peered up at her, blinking against the light.

"We have asked Mrs. Butler to read the unveiling dedication this evening and favor us later with a reading. I will have Bowles extend my uncle's invitation then. It is of no particular significance to _me,_ and she has already performed for the King of Naples, and Aunt Louisa's own father invited her to Versailles. And that will be _that._ I hope I am not so old-fashioned that I dare not have a noted authoress to dine, but we will have seen quite enough of Mrs. Butler after this. It won't do to encourage any hint of preferment."

"As you will, my dear," Melbourne said, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand.

 _The unveiling_ was a source of mixed pride and chagrin, but Victoria had handled it deftly. A small group only was invited, some of her family, some of his and some few others, like Lord Derby and the Cecils, to see his own great-grandfather's ancestral portrait installed in the State Apartments at Windsor.

Melbourne grinned to imagine his mother's reaction, at this proof of her ultimate ambition. Sir Thomas Coke, father of Charlotte, who had married the family lawyer Sir Matthew Lamb, would join those others in the ancestral gallery and take his place beside the queen he had served.

Upon the occasion of her husband's elevation to the peerage, his mother had made a determined effort to document her husband's heritage. Of all the dusty books and papers in the library at Melbourne Hall, one line in an old ledger had struck Melbourne and his brothers as highly suggestive. Old Sir Thomas had been awarded £1,000 out of the privy purse owing to his ‘constant waiting and attendance’ on Queen Anne in recognition of his performance as 'an able, assiduous, and highly versatile vice-chamberlain’.

A hundred-and-forty years later, Melbourne felt a strange kinship with his predecessor that had nothing to do with family ties. Smirking as he recounted their bawdy boyish speculation, he solemnly expressed the hope that his own service was equally praiseworthy.

To his delight, Victoria didn't spare a glance for the maid before answering with proof of her satisfaction, leaning over to kiss him and rub her forehead against his chin.

♛

_I am so weary that my pillow beckons. Nonetheless, I have a longstanding engagement with pen and paper to close out the events of each day whilst recollection is fresh._

_This morning I was to meet with Mr. Pritchard, the agent of my publisher. A Year of Consolation, two little volumes containing the notes I took on my sojourn through Italy, has been printed and bound and awaits distribution. Mr. Moxon himself stuck his head in briefly, to shake hands and offer congratulations. I quite boldly begged leave to present to him the outline of my novel. He was not disinterested in the basic premise, but struck down out of hand my intention to set this romantic tale in a far-distant past. Middle class matrons and shabby-genteel young mothers lack the classical education necessary to make Eleanor herself and the distant province of Aquitaine at all appealing. I must, he said, begin with the creation of a fictional island empire nobody could mistake for anything but what it really is. _That _, he most strenuously argued, is the only way to persuade novel readers to open the page._

_Secondly, I must only lightly disguise the identity of my characters – people must know instantly of whom I write. Of course, the upshot of this is to forfeit any slim chance of disavowal. Will they think that I abused the favor they showed me? I suppose they must, whether or not it matters, may the result be ever so complimentary. _

_My dear husband and former neighbors and friends took umbrage at being depicted on my pages, albeit their identities were carefully disguised. They sued to halt publication in America, a suit that failed despite their claim that as private persons they had a rightful expectation of privacy. In England, my Journal of a Residence on a Georgian Plantation has done much to shine a light on the truth of slavery in our freedom-loving former colony._

_How much more strenuously will the most powerful woman on earth assert her interest in preventing publication of my work? Mr. Moxon had a ready answer for this, positively rubbing his hands and gloating. Any intervention by the Crown or State would only whip up furious interest and increase our sales exponentially._

_Before I could marshal any feeble argument on such heavy-handed editorial control, he stopped me cold by offering a substantial advance. The figure quite took my breath away, so much so that I could only accede. Next, he said, we needed a working title – subject to change, but necessary for the bean counters, to account for a payment of £10,000. My mind went immediately to Melbourne, to his storied life, early favor, then fall from grace and late meteoric rise._

_'Transcendence' – the word spoke itself, as naturally as his story would unfold on my pages. "Call it 'Transcendence, or The Queen and Her Lord M'._


	30. Chapter 30

The aunts – Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester and Augusta, Duchess of Cambridge – were character studies in eccentricity, Melbourne thought, and evidently Mrs. Butler thought so too. The woman had been left in a small withdrawing room to wait until summoned to give her oratory, and when Melbourne passed by she was engaged in observing the assembly from her hidden vantage.

Victoria had parked her there, telling Melbourne only that she wanted to assure herself Mrs. Butler was comfortable and had been provided adequate refreshment. Such concern seemed excessive, and altogether misplaced in a palace employing many hundreds of servants, but when he said so Victoria only smiled and asked him to wait.

Half an hour earlier he had encountered them with their heads together. Victoria infrequently invited one or another of her ladies-in-waiting to attend her while she finished her toilette. Jealous of her privacy, this was not a privilege she extended to anyone but the longest-serving of her feminine companions, those who had managed to maintain their appointments despite Victoria's tendency to find fault and dismiss them on a whim.

Melbourne, nonplussed, concealed his surprise. It was his presence which would give rise to comment. Husbands were not often found waiting on their wives, any more than they slept in the same bed. Such domestic intimacy was unheard-of amongst the upper class.

Fanny rose, unabashed, and made her curtsy. Her eyes went to Victoria, before meeting Melbourne's gaze with a frank, open expression.

"Your Grace," she said, in a dulcet tone. "Your Majesty, may I have leave to withdraw?"

Victoria inclined her head, giving permission, and turned back to her mirror.

"I asked her to come in so we could go over the reading she has prepared." She bowed her dark head so her maid could fasten the clasp on a necklace.

The lavender gown was new, Melbourne thought, although he refrained from saying so, lest he was mistaken. Like most men, he had only imperfect recollection of what gown she'd worn when. This one was of costly Indian cotton finished with a polished sheen, the sleeves long and full, trimmed with spills of snowy lace at the neckline and cuffs. Her bare shoulders gleamed, showing a tempting expanse of creamy skin that begged for his caress.

"Well?" he asked, mindful of the maid still fussing over open jewel cases.

Victoria studied the two lengths of silk he held, one of them a dark purple and the other shimmering amethyst.

"This one?" she mused, holding the darker neckcloth against his embroidered waistcoat. "No, the lighter, I think. Look, it very nearly matches the embossing on my gown."

"As you say, ma'am," Melbourne replied, quirking his lips in a tight grin. Her chief dresser was not present, but had doubtless apprised his valet which outfit Her Majesty had chosen.

Victoria followed him into his dressing room and watched while he arranged the folds of his cravat. Then she selected a diamond pin and fastened it in place.

"This is turning into a rather foolish custom," he growled. "I daresay we indulge them too much." Miss Skerrett, the Queen's chief dresser, and Baines, Melbourne's valet. A waistcoat, shawl, cravat or jewels – on most festive occasions, they would manage some complimentary touch in the Royal couple's toilette.

"Do you mind very much?"

"Mind anything which pleases you? How could I?"

They stood so closely together that Victoria tilted her head back, examining him. She worked a lock of silver hair free, where it had been caught in his high shirt points, and curled it around her finger before releasing it.

"You look very fine, Lord M," she said finally, satisfied.

The occasion for which the family gathered had been – blessedly, Melbourne thought – underplayed. Some of her relatives, some of his and even, in a nod to the past, her cousin Ernst and his Duchess Alexandrine were present, invited to dine at Windsor and be entertained by the stage actress Frances Kemble Butler. Almost incidentally, the family would be present for the unveiling of a new family portrait – that of Prince Frederick's paternal ancestor.

Melbourne understood at least as well as she did, what motivated Victoria. She was resolved, as best she could, to erase her first marriage, relegating young Albert to the status of the Queen's cousin. Bridges and museums, lecture halls and other public works, bore his name, likeness and natal title, but none linked Victoria's name with his. Prince Albert Hall, the Saxe-Coburg and Gotha Museum of Art and Science, the statute and that ubiquitous portrait painted before he left University, ensured that he would remain forever a pretty boy in the public eye.

With the birth of her youngest child, Victoria need not depend on subterfuge and sleight-of-hand to bring Melbourne's family into the Royal fold.

It was a daring game she played, and Melbourne was not the only one who warned her of the need for continuing discretion. The English public was fickle, easily swayed by romance. They had embraced the avuncular protector who stepped up to wed a young widow, even took a sort of vicarious pride in an Englishman taking the place of any other foreign prince suckling at the public teat, but any inkling of the truth would shake the monarchy itself.

Melbourne dared not protest too vociferously; his warnings fell on deaf ears, and if her temper was roused, Victoria was not above reminding him that it was his own excessive caution that had driven her to enter into a farcical marriage and cuckold a husband all too willing to look the other way.

_Legally_ nothing could threaten the legitimacy of the children, of the boy who was heir to the throne. Common law and extensive precedent held that any children born to a woman in marriage was legitimate by default, and no extraneous claim – not infidelity, nor incapacity, not even death of the putative father within two years of conception – could infer bastardy. Still, the tawdry story of a sodomite prince and coolly calculating young queen entering into a marriage of convenience and foisting the get of a Whig lawyer-politician onto the public would make them all objects of gossip and ridicule to rival anything directed at George IV.

So here they were. Freddy, gowned in layers of lawn and lace, held closely by his long-suffering Lady governess, was the guest of honor at the unveiling of his great-great-grandfather's portrait in the Queen's Gallery of Windsor Castle. Sir Thomas, a genial-appearing man who thankfully had none of Sir John's grim, tight-lipped visage, was now ensconced to the right of Queen Anne.

In keeping with the low-key, familial nature of the small celebration, they would not be formally announced. The Lord Chamberlain sent his Sergeant-at-Arms to let them know that all their guests had arrived.

Melbourne glanced down at the slight, very erect figure at his side. Victoria's gaze met his, and she laid a hand on his arm.

They did not _process_ , merely entered side-by-side. Their guests stood in small groups, imbibing French champagne as they idly studied the gilt-framed portraits and priceless _objets d'art._ Midway down the wall, a new acquisition was carefully draped. Fred, Baron Beauvale, had positioned himself nearest to the picture. He had hosted the artist who painstakingly copied the original. That copy now hung in Melbourne Hall, beside an image of the stern Sir John Coke, in his ruff and spade beard.

Melbourne kissed hands and wizened, powdered cheeks. He was a favorite with the aunts, these surviving daughters of George III. His mother-in-law took his arm and took him to renew his acquaintance with Ernst, sovereign duke of the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. No longer an irreverent young rake, Ernst had put on a new dignity and perpetual frown. Melbourne idly wondered whether Albert would have matured into a just such stiff, slightly pompous figure.

Alix, no longer a bride, was yet disposed to be friendly. Still childless, her eyes were on the baby, now in Lady Duoro's arms, even as she greeted Melbourne. He found her a sweet, unassuming creature, blindly devoted to her husband despite his disregard, and called Lady Douro over. She willingly relinquished Freddy to this aunt-in-law, who eagerly reached for the him.

All at once, a piercing shriek disrupted the hum of voices. Alix, startled, reflexively gripped the precious weight in her arms, which only prompted Freddy to another siren wail. Melbourne laughingly dismissed the sudden concern and took up the baby. He put the boy on his shoulder and patted his back. Freddy resisted the initial attempt to soothe him, before resting his cheek, damp with tears, against Melbourne's neck.

Lady Lyttleton hurried over, offering at once to relieve him of her charge. Melbourne shook his head. If Freddy was content to be held by his father, a ruined neckcloth and crumpled shirt was small price to pay. He strolled about the room, humming softly, carrying on a one-sided conversation with his son.

♛

_That dark eye, the lustre of whose gaze she durst not meet…the beaming smile which lighted the countenance…_ _He possessed a happy and cheerful disposition, a frank and winning manner, and that hilarity of heart and countenance which rendered him the charm and sunshine of every society._

And she! Oh, how perfect and clear were the similarities! Would it surprise anyone, who had understood what they read, that once again his heart would be captured by just such another, when beautiful women virtually threw themselves at his head? _"…a heart new to the world—unspoiled and guileless…while yet free, yet untainted, would it not be happiness to secure her as his own—to mould her according to his fancy—to be her guide and protector through life?_ "  
  


I was shown every consideration, even dined at the Queen's table with her illustrious relations. And his, of course; and _his._ I did not put myself forward, although I held my own in conversation. I was seated between Lord Beauvale and the Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, and if the former was adept at putting anyone to whom he directed his attention at their ease with that inimitable Lamb charm, the latter, devoid of even his uncle's rakish, somewhat stilted charm, was heavy going when the table turned. Nonetheless, my own contribution was mere performance, long before I was called upon to read. All my own attention was on the remarkable parallels unfolding before my eyes – before the eyes of anyone who cared to see.

_He seemed to imagine her to be possessed of every quality which he most admired; and the delusive charm of believing: that he was not indifferent to her heart, threw a beauty and grace over all her actions, which blinded him to every error. Thus then they both acknowledged, and surrendered themselves to the power of love. Calantha for the first time yielded up her heart entirely to its enchantment; and Lord Avondale, for the last._

Transcendence would bring the story full circle. My Avondale would find in his Eleanor the realization of a dream.

One had been a fey, barely-tamed girl, a naturally wild creature. The other was restraint personified, trained from childhood to hide all trace of feeling behind a smooth, placid façade. And yet they were one and the same in spirit, or at least he believed it to be so. Calantha reincarnated, Fate giving him a second chance.

Dare I? What should I not dare? This story already exists; it leaves me only to commit it to print. My novel will light the world on fire!

Now that I understand the direction I must take, I feel as though I am little more than a scribe. This story begs me to write it, these characters already live beyond the page. Still, if one who knew him far better than I captured his character, I must capture the mundane details.

See, how tenderly he cradles an infant, those big hands encompassing the tiny being. Note how their gaze meets time and again without deliberation or intent. Each of them caught up in the demands of the moment, yet still finding one in the other, some energizing current in that flickering glance. Write before I forget, how he draws up his mouth at the corner, the merest hint of a reassuring smile; how she revives when she sees it, tightens her own lips in return.

♛

Melbourne held Freddy throughout dinner, a social faux pas of the highest order. The weight of the little bundle of warmth was negligible; he made no attempt to relinquish his burden. He used the baby as his excuse to withdraw with the ladies, leaving the gentlemen to linger over their port.

He only regretfully surrendered when Victoria showed him a frown. As if that silent spousal communication might not suffice, she had leaned into him and whispered.

"William, please, give the baby to his nurse now. Allow Lady Lyttleton to take him back to the nursery."

A foible of advancing age. He murmured the excuse in her ear, but gently laid Freddy in the arms of his governess.

"Better?"

Victoria blushed and lowered her eyes.

"Did I sound like a shrew, darling? It's only…."

"Never mind," Melbourne laughed. "I understand, it is not seemly for a gentleman to dandle an infant in the Queen's drawing room. Now we can be comfortable."

He settled himself in his chair, waved off the footman hovering with a tray of glasses and resigned himself to the next hour. At least, a famed dramatist was marginally more bearable than the infernal chamber music which Victoria most often regaled her guests.

Victoria took her place beside him, after seeing to her guests. At a nod, the harpist began strumming, the cue for Fanny's reading to begin.

The setting, even their company, and most of all, Victoria at his side, were all Melbourne needed for his comfort and he felt his eyes drift shut.

"You fell asleep," she pretended to scold him, and Melbourne pretended to look abashed. Their guests were gone, the candles extinguished except for a single light beside their bed.

"I did not!" he protested, his voice rising in playful outrage. Barefoot, Victoria was even smaller, lacking the inches her heels provided. Brown hair streamed down her back, and her face was rosy from washing. She smelled good, and he told her so.

"Denmark lotion," was the prosaic response, as she rubbed her nose against his nightshirt. Her arms were around him, hands joined at the small of his back.

"Did it go as you'd hoped?" Melbourne asked, his tone suddenly serious. He had no idea what he meant by the question, except to ascertain whether her own family had said anything to indicate resentment of a mere country gentleman joining his betters on the walls of the Gallery.

"Mmmhmmm," she muttered, inarticulate, breath warm against his chest. "Ernst is so…so different. No longer carefree…it can hardly weigh on him, a small Duchy…or perhaps he no longer likes us as well as he did."

"Does it concern you?"

"Pfft…" Victoria made a vulgar noise that Melbourne took as scoffing. "It was only Uncle Leopold who imagined he could create a sort of international dynasty, uniting every throne in Europe through family ties. Nonsensical."

"There are precious few thrones left, at least of the kind he envisioned. Those who resisted the call for democratic representation and clung to their power…"

It was no topic for bedtime conversation, and so Melbourne let his voice trail off.

"I wish we didn't have to go to Brussels." Despite the very prosaic notion she expressed, Victoria's hands busily stroked his buttocks. "Poor darling, you sail so poorly when the crossing is rough."

Melbourne was susceptible to seasickness, and even liberally dosed with paregoric, his stomach would revolt at the very sight of waves.

"Never mind that now. Lie down and I will rub your back, darling."

He sprawled face down on crisp linen sheets and stretched luxuriously. It _had_ gone well, he decided, the aunts pleased to be at the heart of a family gathering, the Duchess of Kent gracious and attentive to their company, and even Ernst, starchy as he was, not unwilling to be pleased. _Especially_ pleased by the vivacious Mrs. Butler, which was no bad thing under the circumstances.

Victoria lifted his overlong hair and began kneading the cords in his neck. Her fingers found exactly the right places, to relieve tension he didn't know he'd held. From there she turned her attention to his shoulders, and he thought he might purr with contentment.

"Mrs. Butler is charming," she said as she worked. "She has begun a new work – a novel, this time. I think she will model her protagonist on you."

"On me?" Melbourne grunted when she prodded a tender point, midway between his shoulder and spine.

"She didn't say so, but she _watches_ you so, and asks me questions. Harmless questions - I don't mean to suggest she pries – and _no,_ it's not the attention of a woman intent on seduction. More…as if she _studies_ you when we are together."

Melbourne felt his muscles turn to jelly, as she used her weight to release the tautness in his spine. Something warm – ah, scented lotion – spread luxuriantly over his skin. Competing desires tugged at him – to relax into sleep under her ministrations, or reward her in kind? He rolled over smoothly and lifted the hem of her gown.

"Enough of that woman, my darling, my precious girl. I want, I demand, all of your attention on _me._ "

* * *


	31. Chapter 31

_HMY Victoria and William_

China-blue sky overhead, perfection only amplified by clouds so fluffy-white they resembled the drawing of a hopeful child. Seabirds circled low, providing a show when one or another dove headlong into the water.

 _The water_. Its surface was smooth, only slightly marred by the ripple of waves. So still was the Channel they might have been becalmed, if reliant solely on wind power. But Her Majesty's Yacht _Victoria and William_ was a twin-paddle steamer and bore them with impunity to their destination.

Melbourne knew that the ship measured 1,034 tons, carried two guns, and was the first royal yacht to be steam powered, being fitted with a 430 horsepower engine. All this and more was recited each time Her Majesty and His Grace set out on an excursion.

To call him an indifferent seafarer would show unwarranted optimism. Melbourne suffered greatly each time he was forced to set sail. Those trips back and forth to Dublin had cemented a tendency to be ravaged by the dizziness, vertigo and relentless nausea more able sailors called _sea sickness._ Time and experience had done little to abate his symptoms entirely, but taught him that if he could remain on deck in the open air, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, he would suffer less, both physically and in loss of dignity.

He had slept little the night before, and fatigue added its mite to the mild composer his physician had prescribed. A few drops of laudanum taken dockside, a fresh breeze and mild sea combined to lull him into pleasant lassitude. Melbourne gripped the varnished rail with two fists, habitually straight posture keeping him upright, and allowed his thoughts to drift.

That time of the night when he could be alone with her behind stout well-guarded doors was the hour he most cherished. Then they talked in low voices, whispering secrets in the dark. In ten years of companionship, five of marriage, they had never run out of things to say. With Victoria, Melbourne could speak of anything, speak freely without guarding his tongue. And she, delightful child, now adored and adoring wife, found in Melbourne her only confidante.

The evening before had been dedicated to the chrysalis of family, hearing Liam recite his lessons and enjoy uninterrupted time with both parents. Lily danced about, her irrepressible self, yet showing an unusually open affection for the brother they would soon leave behind. As a matter of course, the Heir to the Throne belonged to the people. He could not travel to foreign parts, leaving the country without a clear succession. Liam understood and accepted, even as he clung to his parents. It was Lily who protested on her brother's behalf. When a long-delayed bedtime came at last, Melbourne had held his natural child – considered by the world at large to be only a stepson – so that he could feel the little Prince's heart beating through his nightshirt.

Whether it was that leaving which prompted the long-overdue reminiscences that followed, or if it merely felt safe to finally unloch that corner of his heart, Melbourne began talking of Augustus.

Of course Victoria knew what anyone did, of his firstborn's tragic life. The brain malady which had plagued him was common knowledge, and when Augustus died at 29 years of age, well meaning people had assumed that Melbourne considered it a welcome reprieve. Victoria, knowing him as she did, was familiar with the facts, but had an imperfect understanding of the emotional truth because Melbourne had never attempted to confess it. Reliving the alternating hope and despair was simply too painful, and he had not wanted to blight their charmed life by reawakening old demons.

But on the preceding night, the time was right, and he had stumbled headlong into a tentative introduction of Victoria to his eldest son. He began at the end, when Augustus was already a man grown, a morass of contradictions and madness. He described a tall, loose-limbed young man who might have been handsome if not for a certain emptiness in his eyes. Those same eyes could burn with fervor when some transient enthusiasm gripped him, or with the unmistakable light of madness when his illness raged full force, but mostly there was a heartbreaking dullness, the apathy of a keen mind who perceived his own _alienation._ And yet…and yet…there were days and nights, when Melbourne and his son talked as equals. Augustus read voraciously, such a constant occupation that crates of books were delivered monthly. He wrote to Susan, when she'd departed for Switzerland, and read the long letters she wrote him. But the simple pleasures of young manhood eluded him. Despite the natural urges of manhood, he'd never lain with a woman who loved him and only rarely found release in the carefully chosen females a discreet Abbess procured. He'd never had a friend but his father and foster sister, and his own cousins despised him. His aunt had compared him to Mary Shelley's monster, in his shuffling stiff-kneed gait and the urges which terrified serving maids and outraged the neighbors.

He'd never ridden out, or gone to a play with a party of young bucks, watched a prize fight or kicked up his heels at college. And the pain in a father's heart, at guiding an emotionally stunted man-child through the world, knowing that happiness was as foreign a concept to Augustus as color would be to a child born blind…Melbourne allowed the tears to stream down his face, and when Victoria pulled his head to her bosom he let her.

"Parents lose children too soon," he had mumbled, lips against the soft skin of one small breast.

"It's a fact of life, and a sure source of grief. But to love a child and watch him grow, and then lose him knowing he had never really _lived_ at all, or even comprehended the point of being alive…that is a unique sort of bereavement, and one in which the mourning far predates the loss."

She had said nothing, only made soft sounds to comfort him, but when Melbourne felt those small sure arms around him, her fingers untangling his hair, he felt an inexpressible sense of weight lifted and knew that she did not pity him, or attempt to minimize his still-fresh grief with some platitude about _God's will_ or _it was for the best._ Victoria loved him, and the truth of that, its solid undeniable reality, grounded him again, as it had since he first saw the light of love in her gaze.

There was more, and he'd pulled himself away from her breast, determined to confess like a man. Looking down, unable to meet those blue eyes, Melbourne admitted his fear that their own beautiful children might manifest some sign of a hereditary madness that he bore in his seed. The horror of finding some trace of Augustus in his half-brother, the heir to the Throne. Or in Lily, with her unbridled tempers, or even in Freddy, prone to spells of inconsolable crying and that worrying tendency to bruise.

"It was as if Augustus fell from the stars, an alien being unable to navigate Earth. We hid him away from all strong stimulus, which could overset his senses and bring on the worst. But for a boy who will be King, there could be no hiding away…my darling…my _Gloriana_ , it would be the undoing of us all, and a thousand-year reign."

Melbourne brushed off her consolation, the reassurances she tried to offer. He could _see_ and _feel_ that those words hit home – she had winced unaware at the prospect.

No substantive conversation followed, only Victoria's caresses and his own heavy sighs. But she did not withdraw, instead arranged herself for sleep pressed so tightly against him that all night he drew warmth and strength from her flesh.

 _Enough of that_ , Melbourne told himself, and willed the hands which gripped the cold rail to loosen their clutch. Liam's sweet, almost angelic smile and the pleasure he took in those trains and mechanical toys which were Albert's legacy, Lily's sheer exuberance, were proof enough that they were capable of happiness. And Freddy, although he fussed overmuch and bruised so easily, still gurgled and smiled, responded with glee to his father's embrace. They were healthy and whole and most of all, happy, freed of any curse which might have come through his blood.

Melbourne turned from the rail, determined to try his unreliable stomach and go inside. Better even to empty his gut, than to lapse into the inevitable melancholy of excess solitude. Just then, the ship's horn blew three sharp short notes and he knew that land was in sight.

♛

"…a Roman à clef…"

Victoria sat prettily in a gilded armchair, watching as her Ladies-in-Waiting poured tea. Her uncle sat across from them, holding himself with the overly dignified self-awareness which rendered him a laughingstock in some quarters. Once an Adonis, his countenance was now diminished by the gravitas required of a new kingship. _But_ , Melbourne told himself, _you are determined not to find fault. Leopold is, as we all are, flawed, contradictory, yet capable of compassion and greatness._

They would be housed for the night in the Ambassador's residence, before traveling in State on the morrow. Those who formed part of their party – two newly assigned junior foreign secretaries, a fabulously wealthy Nabob who had bought himself a title and entrée into the courts of Europe, and Mrs. Butler, at Leopold's invitation – but were not part of the Royal Household would rejoin them at the dinner Leopold was hosting that evening. Despite the propriety of these arrangements, he had specially asked that Mrs. Butler join the family in the Ambassador's Drawing Room.

Melbourne watched her watching them. Fanny's eyes were bright with interest and at times she appeared to be recording everything she saw and heard to memory. Lady Canning had deftly brought her into the conversation by asking about her newest literary endeavor. Leopold preened himself and almost _flirted_ , Melbourne saw, although he was in for a surprise if he imagined Fanny formed any part of that lightskirt brigade whose charms could be obtained for a price.

Lady Lyttleton brought in the Princess Elizabeth, now freshly attired in a miniature gown trimmed with lace that even coyly bared her little shoulders. Melbourne nodded slightly to his daughter, unwilling to disrupt the Princess Royale's dignified entry.

She curtsied to her mother and then her great-uncle, pinching a flounce on her gown. Then she turned to Melbourne, as protocol dictated, but her composure could not hold.

"Papa, I did _very well_ , I think. Don't you agree?"

Melbourne could not keep an answering grin from his face.

"Very well indeed, Your Royal Highness!" he commended.

"I do. Now Lady Lyttleton _must_ allow me a cake, don't you think?"

"Perhaps not _right_ now. Will you sit with me instead? The King and Queen are very fond of one another, and have not been in each other's company since Christmas last."

To keep her attention, Melbourne reminded Lily of the holiday Leopold had spent at Brocket Hall, bringing with him a parcel of unappetizing children – his eldest son and heir was an especially cruel, overbearing boy – and his longsuffering Queen.

Her big blue eyes, so like her Mama's, remained fixed on Melbourne as though he were her whole delight and dependence. Lily might be a tiny termagant, but she adored him and for that Melbourne could overlook anything. He nevertheless had conceded a need to teach her restraint and rein in those impulsive actions. Only, it must be left to others – Melbourne ruefully admitted, to himself and Victoria, that he was not firm, or a stern disciplinarian. Further, he could and did acknowledge that her temper and boldness posed a real danger to her future and even her safety, but he would not, under any circumstances, see that spirit diminished.

In that regard, he need not have feared. Lehzen doted on the child, as did the Queen, despite her frequently expressed frustration, and Lily herself was not prone to languish, unduly crushed by a scolding.

Lily would have preferred to enthrone herself on his lap, as she did at home in the Queen's drawing room, but even the most doting parent knows what etiquette requires. Melbourne offered his hand in a courtly gesture to assist Lily as she took her place on the chair beside him with as much grace as she could muster on short legs.

A footman immediately came to offer refreshments on a silver tray, and Melbourne chose a glass of sherry. There was nothing suitable for a four-year-old, and he briefly debated asking for lemonade but Lily took matters into her own hands.

"Lemonade, please," his daughter said, in a tone of great dignity. "I do _not_ like wine."

Melbourne settled himself, content to listen and observe and contribute a _bon mot_ occasionally. They were on dry land, Victoria with the uncle she still – despite their increasing coolness, as she refuted his intention to guide and advise her – loved as a father, and Melbourne with his adored and adoring wife, their daughter and the baby boy just now blessedly asleep in his cradle. It mattered not _where_ they were, so long as they had each other. Only the presence of the young Prince of Wales was needed to make his contentment complete.

They would be paraded about, so that Leopold could flaunt his familial connection with the most powerful empire on earth; crowds would cheer and wave, or curse and fling rotten fruit, and it would be no more than background noise, readily ignored.

If, in all of this, prosaic and profound, Mrs. Butler found something worth committing to paper, then so be it; all they could do was live their lives, and cherish the family they had made.

♛

In that same Ambassador's drawing room, Frances Butler had little chance to observe, as she so often did, the silent interactions between husband and wife. She must exert herself to be charming to King Leopold I, but not _so_ charming that it encouraged awkward attentions. The old roué who once won the heart of the monarch's only child had aged well, unless one looked too closely. Then it became apparent he tried too hard to cling to his youth, with thick pancake makeup and a toupée.

Quite unlike that _other_ elderly gentleman. Melbourne was a man entirely at home in his own skin, and she liked that above all. There was no artifice about him, and no attempt to please, yet he had a full measure of that Lamb family charm. His heavy features might be those of Caesar on a coin, except for the sweetness of his expression and the kindness in his eyes.

She had filled pages with her observations, and the dynamic between this unlikely husband and wife had been captured ably, she thought. If there was anything about her protagonist left to tell, it would be when she uncovered the well of sadness only hinted at, a transient vulnerability when his eyes rested on the Queen's, the tenderness he showed each child. It might be unmanly in someone else, but Melbourne it suited, and detracted not at all from his undeniable appeal.

The most frustrating missing piece was dramatic tension, and it was that she hoped to discover. A strong marriage between two worthy people, the essential tranquility of their family life, might be the grail to which every reader aspired, but it didn't sell theatre seats. There must be discord, discontent, even tragedy, and then a final denouement. Dare she invent the missing dramatics? Or, even worse, expose a good man's hidden scars to the world?

 _Transcendence_ must be successful. Fanny knew without a doubt her star was fading, and her early acclaim in America had dimmed. She could expect no help from any quarter; she must rely on her pen.


	32. Chapter 32

Victoria stroked her skin with a hares' foot brush, up-and-out to create the semblance of an elegant hollow beneath her inadequate cheekbones. She assessed her own image critically. _Not prone to spots,_ she was pleased to say. And a creamy complexion which was arguably her best feature. Blue eyes large and well-shaped, but with that unfortunate Hanover prominence. _At least my lashes are long and even curl up at the tips._ Nose straight and not overlarge, but lacking in the aquiline quality she admired in conventional beauties. William, the darling, called it _retroussé_ and would kiss the slightly upturned tip. Short upper lip which – Victoria shuddered to remember herself as a greedy, gauche adolescent, gobbling her food open-mouthed at table, before Mama and even dear Feodora drilled into her a sense of decorum. Weak chin which lied, hinting at a lack of determination, surely not accurate in her case, she reflected, smirking at the notion.

_In short, no accredited beauty, even without counting short stature_. Victoria was realist enough to accept that, not without regret. Time and maturity had taught her little tricks to compensate, and she had influenced the established mode of fashion to suit her own style. Even Emily conceded that mere prettiness faded, whereas a face and figure informed by character, self-confidence and good taste would remain striking long after those willowy, ethereal beauties lost their God-given attributes. Emily had seen fit to add, as an example, poor Caro at the end, bloated, those elfin features coarsened nearly beyond recognition. _That_ , Victoria considered, was uncalled-for spite. She felt a perverse sense of loyalty to William's first wife, nearly equal to the resentment his doting sister provoked.

"So serious, my love…"

Victoria, staring absently into her looking glass, started when she heard that dear, gravelly voice.

"I didn't see you come in," she said, rising quickly. Their body servants travelled with them, of course, but my Lord Chamberlain had included a few footmen and maids as well. That foresight provided a thin layer of privacy in Leopold's small – by the standard of Buckingham or Windsor – Brussels palace.

"You look very well, Lord M," she purred, smiling to show her admiration. He wore a deep blue tailcoat over pristine white satin knee breeches and the silk stockings which were _de rigueur_ for a gentleman's formal evening _toilette_. Melbourne's figure was good, with broad manly shoulders and a deep chest which provided the perfect pillow for her head. His long legs were, for a man who disdained any exercise but walking, well-muscled and lean.

"I'm flattered, madame," Melbourne answered in courtly tones. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"I miss you," Victoria said softly, aware that her dresser waited.

"And I you," he answered, releasing her hand and going to sit on a bench near the door. "Pray don't allow me to interrupt."

"Don't leave. Skerrett, my gown."

Victoria's brown hair was arranged in atop her head, except for one long curl, carefully careless, just brushed her bare shoulder. The desired effect, to elongate her neck, was thereby achieved to perfection. Yards of shimmering plum satin overlaid with silver lace fell over her head without disturbing the coiffure.

Jewels came next, the Turkish diamond set, massive gemstones suspended on thin worked wire and set into intricate filigree so that each appeared to hover just above the smooth skin of her décolleté.

"You're wearing all your Orders," Victoria said suddenly, her voice sharp with pleasure. Her husband was, she knew, oddly reticent about any display of rank and favor which might be attributed solely to his marriage. Tonight, he wore the Garter, the star of a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order and several others on a sash.

"I am,' Melbourne intoned. "It is, after all, a State occasion."

As Skerrett worked, fastening buttons, settling the sparkling tiara into her hair, twitching her skirts just so and adjusting the low neckline of her gown so it lay flat, Victoria felt a pleasant tension grow. For the length of their stay in Palace of Laeken – now on the eighth day – she and Melbourne had occupied separate apartments. To do otherwise would be to draw uncomfortable, and unwanted, attention to their marital customs. Well-bred people quite simply did not share a bedroom, and even late-night visits were most often reserved for illicit amorous encounters. For a husband to be seen traveling the length of the corridor by candlelight only to slip into his own wife's bedchamber would have elicited snickering speculation both above and below stares.

When, after an interminable period, the dresser's work was done, Victoria briefly examined herself in the mirror and the dismissed her.

"I've wanted to talk to you about so _much,_ " she said as soon as they were alone. Melbourne got to his feet and showed her a quizzical little smile. "It seems we haven't had five minutes alone."

He stood so close now, radiating warmth and strength, that Victoria ached to feel his arms around her. Cautiously, so as not to put her coiffure in disarray or smudge rice powder onto his lapel, Victoria swayed against him. He opened his arms as she knew he would, splaying his palms at the small of her back.

"Careful, darling…" she whispered against the soft nap of his coat, ending with a contented sigh.

Victoria sucked in her breath when she felt his lips on her collarbone. He found the hollow just under her clavicle, his mouth never leaving her skin. His breath was warm, so warm, and his lips so tender…Victoria's stomach tightened and then, still lower, something clenched in an almost-painful spasm of desire.

"Forbidden fruit…" Melbourne whispered, laughing, as he withdrew his mouth and the heady heat of his presence. "Admit, it's rather pleasant, this enforced abstinence and the…er…mounting anticipation."

"Come to me tonight," Victoria said gruffly, demanding. "We have – you are my chief counselor and there is much we need to –"

"Patience, sweetheart, patience. Else we will be guilty of an unforgiveable faux pas. Now that you have three healthy children, what possible excuse could there be for such wanton behavior? This is the point at which every _respectable_ lady of rank takes a lover, with her husband's implicit approval."

"Shush, you. If I had another husband I would most assuredly take you as a lover. As it is, I am forced to settle for my husband."

They were laughing then, together, exchanging murmured risqué banter as Melbourne led her to the carriage which would deliver them to the official State Palace of Belgium.

♛

During that carriage ride, traveling the five miles which separated the Palace of Laeken, home to the King of the Belgians, and the State Palace, site of all official State business, they spoke of their separate engagements. Over the past week Melbourne had reviewed military units and met with a lengthy list of government ministry officials eager to increase their own ties to the all-powerful United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Victoria had, meanwhile, been kept busy appearing at her uncle King Leopold's side at every public ceremony he could muster to flaunt his familial tie to the sovereign of the greatest nation on earth.

_Charles Rogier_

Melbourne described to her in salient terms Barthélémy de Theux de Meylandt, the outgoing Prime Minister. Monsieur Charles Rogier, Meylandt's successor, was a Liberal with polish and charm. As a man, Rogier was impossible to dislike; as a politician, Melbourne withheld his opinion. Monsieur Roger had led the Revolution in '30 which saw working class rioting in the streets, unseated the king and threw Belgium into disorder To Victoria, he praised the man's savoir faire, shared a few anecdotes about the ladies at Leopold's small court who were already aflutter, and advised her to judge for herself the rest. She showed him a tight conspiratorial smile, understanding perfectly what he had refrained from saying, and squeezed his hand appreciatively.

In Melbourne's estimation, Leopold was a pragmatist. On her paternal side, Victoria was heir to a thousand-year dynasty. If Elector George had been a necessary evil to maintain England's Protestantism, he was nonetheless a legitimate descendant of William the Conqueror. Leopold, on her distaff side, was a mere younger son of an obscure principality. He and his line had persevered through wily instincts combined with a ruthless determination to succeed by any means necessary. That, and fecundity, and a rather practical adherence to the Protestant faith that kept them just beyond the reach of the Holy Roman Empire. Leopold knew well he was a monarch-for-hire, and since – as Melbourne had said once before, in different circumstances – he was made King by the party in power, they could as easily unmake him.

Melbourne respected Victoria's uncle for that man's political acumen and had never underestimated his ambition. He had neither sought nor welcomed their estrangement, and did his best to pour oil on troubled waters. Leopold, for his part, had come around, finding it easier to accept a nephew-by-marriage some years older than himself, than he did a niece ready to resist all external influence. Now, a decade into her majority, it seemed they had reached an understanding. Leopold still offered his own perspective on the events of the day, still openly advocated for his own nation's interests, but no longer – at least so far as Melbourne could see – did so with his previous patronizing, paternalistic attitude.

Victoria, satisfied that her prickly sense of her own autonomy – sometimes veering perilously close to _omnipotence_ – was respected, had regained some of the old affection for her uncle and even showed it openly once more. Their strange family, Victoria at the center, surrounded by satellite relatives, had none of the disinterested warmth and affection that his own Lamb relations prized, but she needed them nonetheless, more than she knew. He would not be with her forever.

"You _will_ dance with me, Lord M," were her final words, as she stepped down from the carriage.

Victoria whirled around the floor with her uncle to open the ball, and thereafter with a succession of partners. At 28, she had come into her own, poised, confident and with a sweetly sophisticated demeanor that permitted just a glimpse of her innate shyness in social settings. Melbourne found it impossible to view her with detachment – they were too deeply connected – but he mustered enough objectivity to appreciate the appearance she presented to the world. A trim figure, elegant set to her head and a certain graceful physicality which entirely made up for her lack of inches. No painter had yet managed to capture the effervescent loveliness of finely-drawn features enlivened by a vivid character, the always-intelligent, occasionally playful sparkle in those blue eyes and a mouth made for kissing, soft lips that parted for his own.

Melbourne watched her with such rapt attention he scarcely noticed his surroundings until Leopold chided him in a jocular way. Then he smiled and did as he was bade, bowing before the French-born Belgian Queen and leading her onto the floor.

Louise-Marie of Orléans, Princess Royal of France, daughter of Louis-Phillipe and wife to Leopold of Belgium, was a kind and generous female, taking her role of aunt-in-law to Victoria seriously. Melbourne thought well of her, when he thought of her at all, but under the circumstances, and he devoted himself to her, winning first a genuine smile, then hesitant laughter.

Melbourne took to the floor three times in all, each dance a slow one. Quadrilles and _polka, contredanses_ with their energetic stepping, were best suited to young people, not a man of his age with a slight infirmity. He was contented with his place on the sidelines, exchanging pleasantries with the Grand Duchess of Sicily, bantering with a quick-witted young woman who had been introduced as a Hapsburg and conversing with the American chargé d'affaires.

Victoria was enjoying herself in a way not possible in London. Here, while she could not evade scrutiny as visiting a visiting royal, there was not that English predisposition to find fault with the sovereign. The _ton_ at home regarded the Hanoverian dynasty with, at best, amused disdain. Victoria had put a decisive period to that era, when she'd taken his name as her own, a move that increased her popularity with the common people, but it would take another generation or two for those proud aristocratic families ennobled in the Middle Ages to the Conqueror to forget the Georges, derisively called the Elector and the Farmer.

She was ever hesitant, even regretful, when Melbourne encouraged her to leave his side. But Victoria loved dancing and he took his pleasure in observing her own. Only as the night evening wound down did he lead her onto the floor. Then, during that waltz, they recaptured the early tantalizing magic of the young Queen and her Prime Minister, when a chaste hand on her back was all the intimacy they dared.

When she returned to the dais her face was prettily flushed and her breast heaving from exertion. She drank iced champagne greedily and fanned herself, and in that moment, Melbourne saw a girl of just eighteen again, her eyes newly opened to the pleasures of adult society.

"How I adore you!" Melbourne exclaimed under his breath, unable to stop the words, knowing that if anyone glanced in his direction they would see the face of a man in his sixty-eighth year lovestruck as a boy.

" _Je t’aime de tout mon coeur_ ," Victoria responded, her own pretty face softened by the undeniable, lasting attachment which defied all odds and early reckoning. Whatever the future held, Melbourne knew himself blessed.

They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the ballroom floor. Silk-gowned ladies and gentlemen in evening attire blended together into a dreamlike tableau.

As freely as talk flowed between them, quiet was equally effortless. Melbourne sat back, content, and noted as he did so that Victoria minutely adjusted her position so that she leaned – just a trifle – in his direction. That gesture, to Melbourne, defined them as much as anything else did. Victoria drew strength and comfort from his nearness, always, but then Melbourne likewise was becalmed when she was beside him. Something inside – to call it tension would be exaggeration – expanded and relaxed, when his _Gloriana_ was close at hand.

♛

" _Mon petit chou…hush, my darling boy, sweet baby…Papa's here now and will make it all better_ …"

Melbourne murmured such disjointed phrases as one uses to sooth a crying child. The night nurse had tapped at his door, presumably pushing past pages and footmen. She was a good girl, country-bred, eldest daughter of one of his tenant farmers, grown to adulthood on Brocket Hall land. As such, she was privy to the innermost workings of their family and knew to turn first to her young charge's father when some crisis arose.

Melbourne heard his youngest child before he saw him, when blood-curdling shrieks reached his ears. He had donned a dressing gown and slippers and followed her down a back corridor. Freddy and Lily shared a small suite of apartments, one room for sleeping, a second for daytime lessons and play and a third, smallest of all, where their nurses slept on narrow beds.

A single candle stood on the bureau, providing light sufficient for Melbourne to find his way to the cot. Freddy's arms and legs pinwheeled; his face was red, moist with tears. When Melbourne reached to lift him, the baby's wailing intensified as though his father's movement caused him pain.

Melbourne, familiar with these bouts of anguish, called for feather pillows. He settled himself into a chair and laid them across his knees. He then gently placed his son on the downy cushion, cradled against his breast.

Freddy was normally as pliable and affectionate as as a new puppy. When in the grip of these bouts of distress, Melbourne had learned the infant did not tolerate being held and preferred the comfort of a soft cushion. _As if mere contact pains him_ , Melbourne had noted previously, one more small clue that all was not perfectly well. It was almost as if this fragile new being was racked by the same joint pains that plagued his father on occasion.

Melbourne hummed a tuneless melody. He stroked Freddy's cheek with one finger, traced the whorls of one shell-like ear, reassuring his son with caresses. Under this feather-light touch the boy quieted, uttering one final gusty sigh before nestling against the folds of his father's nightshirt.

"Please wake the Queen," Melbourne requested of the maid. "Ask her to come to us."

Victoria entered minutes later. Her hair was streaming down her back and she wore, over her nightdress, an unbelted silk robe. Melbourne saw her brow furrowed with concern, and extended his hand to clasp her wrist in a firm, reassuring grip.

"All is well now, ma'am," he whispered. "Sit with us?"

Victoria leaned in, over his shoulder, and bent to rub her cheek against that of her drowsing baby boy. She was rewarded by a gurgle of pleasure, and a chubby fist grasping her curtain of hair.

Victoria lowered herself to the arm of the chair and leaned against Melbourne. They sat together, watching their child until he was soundly asleep.

When it seemed safe to do so, he gingerly carried Freddy to his cot. Then he encircled Victoria's waist with his arm and led her back to her chamber.

"Stay," she whispered, once inside. Melbourne thought of the raised eyebrows they would encounter in the morning, and just as swiftly dismissed them from mind. Victoria's warmth, the sweet musky fragrance of her soft curves, made a compelling argument in favor of scandalizing the Belgian household.

"Nurse said his discomfort began when she changed his gown after feeding. She vows she was gentle – and oh! I believe her, the poor girl is that upset – yet as soon as she moved his arm, it triggered that awful crying. _Something_ is causing him pain in his joints."

Melbourne saw the concern on her face, and wished he might console her.

"Alas, I must agree with you," he answered regretfully. "Yet I think it is nothing grim, for he is as happy and healthy a boy as I've ever seen, outside of these episodes."

Without further discussion, they walked together to her bed. It was a platformed affair, massive, ornate, architecturally prominent in the modest chamber. Two steps led up to the surface, but on a whim Melbourne lifted her and settled her against banked pillows.

One facet of marriage Melbourne especially liked, was that their lovemaking took many shapes. Exquisitely tender or bawdily playful, sometimes frantic, even harsh, throbbing with desperate desire when the niceties were forgotten and she demanded and was taken with the roughness of a stranger.

After so many days apart Melbourne had entertained himself – to substantial effect – with imagining the hot hunger when they finally came together. Having her here in the flesh, their amorous congress progressed of its own accord. There was no need to seduce; she was warm and eager with desire, yielding with the perfect trust she had always placed in him at this moment. Melbourne sensed the faint quivering which rippled through her, recognized the inward focus of her unseeing gaze when she drifted on a wave of pure sensation. That in and of itself was enough to urge him towards his own pleasure, so much so that he forced himself to hold back. Soft mewling sounds from the back of her throat, legs tightening around his torso as she lifted herself to meet him, small hands fluttering against his back, and then he met her in paradise.

"Your stomach is making noises. Are you hungry, William?"

Melbourne grinned at the accusation in her voice. Victoria struggled to sit upright, crossing her legs under her. He admired her small breasts, defiant of age and gravity. Brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, she looked scarcely more than 18. Yet that compact little body had borne him three children, had absorbed a bullet fired at close range by the hunchbacked madman, and was his bulwark against the darkness.

"I confess it, I am."

Accustomed to the rather Spartan diet Victoria insisted upon at home, Melbourne's system had rebelled at richly sauced Continental dishes on Leopold's table. Rather than suffer from dyspepsia he had begun toying with his food, doing little more than pushing it around on his plate, so that a roll with his coffee in the morning and a few mouthfuls of chicken or fish in the evening, were his only sustenance.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she tsk'd when he explained the cause. "Stay there, if you please."

She clambered down from the tall bed unaided and paused only to tie the sash of her negligee. Then the Queen of England padded barefoot into the corridor, in search of sustenance.

At shortly after four o'clock in the morning, when a few brave birds had begun singing their salute to the new day, Melbourne and Victoria feasted on a picnic of fresh crusty bread and cheese, Greek olives and apples, buttermilk in a jug brought up from the dairy, even the remains of a cake.

"What should we do about Freddy?" she asked finally, her first mention of the boy since they'd left him.

"I won't have him poked and prodded, or dosed with foul nostrums. Nor will we cloud his mind with morphine," Melbourne's answer reflected those early years, when Caro tried every new quackery in her search for a cure. He winced at the memory of those successive attempts, each of them worse than the last.

Then he smiled, picturing the vigorous pumping of Freddy's legs when freed of his swaddling, the grip he maintained on Victoria's hair or any other object which might tangle in reach, his ready laughter and the light in his eyes when they rested on his brother and sister.

"The children have never been ill. Well, Elizabeth, after her dunking in the River Lea – " Victoria shuddered at the memory. "But other than that, we haven't had a moment's concern for their health, any of them. Elizabeth an eight-month's baby, yet lustier than children twice her weight."

"We've been fortunate, and will continue to be so," Melbourne said firmly. "You mustn't think otherwise. Now come, let me hold you."

He settled her between his outstretched legs, resting his chin on the top of her head. His arms folded around her midsection, Melbourne marveled at how neatly her curves filled his hollow places.

"Have I told you, you are my world, Mrs. Melbourne?" he growled against her hair.

"I love you more, my darling, my dearest Lord M," Victoria purred in return.


	33. Chapter 33

_Two more days_. Melbourne stopped the thought before it was fully formed. It mattered little, in any case, _where_ they were, so long as they were together. As much as she chafed at being put on display, as witness to Leopold's familial credentials, Victoria made the most of this opportunity to restore the old bonds of affections between them.

They had each gone to sleep in their separate suites shortly before the sun rose. Victoria was up and dressed when Melbourne came in, neat in a simple day dress. An opened dispatch box attested on her writing desk, and she was busily making notes in the margin of some document.

Melbourne leaned over her shoulder to chastely kiss a cheek, and Victoria wordlessly passed him the document. Written by Bedford, it contained the names of suspected foreign agents in the capital. Two in particular had fresh checkmarks beside them. Melbourne raised a brow.

"It didn't surprise you?" he asked lightly. "All countries spy on one another; there is no exception for allies. Simply good business, to remain proactive."

"I know," Victoria admitted. "But that our friends…" She grinned sheepishly, acknowledging the inherent naivete of that sentiment, and settled back to her task. Melbourne scanned the printed itinerary, pleased to note only one official engagement. _Her Most Sovereign Majesty_ and _His Grace_ would receive the new Prime Minister at two o'clock. A full two hours had been blocked for this purpose; nothing else was scheduled for the day.

An early iteration of this same agenda had contained a fourth name. Christian Friedrich Freiherr von Stockmar had fully intended to take part. Victoria acceded to her uncle in most things – he was, after all, their host – but she had crossed out that name, her pen pressed so heavily against the paper that the ink left a blot, black on white.

The Machiavellian Baron Stockmar, much more than Leopold himself, had been the author of so much early misery. He had blamed the young Victoria's Prime Minister for thrusting a spoke in the wheel of his plan for a European dynasty, Coburg blood and influence stretching from the steppes of Russia to the shores of Ireland. To that end, he had urged Leopold to marry nephew to niece: Albert and Victoria were to produce a child for every Throne in Europe.

Melbourne paged through the thick stack of documents awaiting her attention. The Houses were not sitting at present, and would not return to session for several weeks. Nonetheless, Lord Bentinck had submitted for the sovereign's perusal a multi-page petition asking, in his words, "for a Select Committee to inquire into the state of the colonies of the West Indies, as regards their present power to compete with those countries which have still the advantage of the enforced labour of the slaves."

Victoria's appreciation was expressed wordlessly. She tackled her work with the careful diligence of a schoolgirl – and much resembled a schoolgirl as well, Melbourne thought, in a tartan-plaid cotton frock embellished with white lace and ribbon, looped braids fastened over each ear. Bentinck's wordy analysis would be studied line by line, if it fell to her to do so, but a preliminary review by Melbourne would vastly simplify the task.

"For you, my dear, I shoulder my burden without complaint." Melbourne poured coffee from a silver pot and settled himself in an armchair to read.

" _If ever there was a doubt in the mind of any man that it would not be possible with the free labour of the negroes for our West Indian colonists to compete with those who have the advantage of slave labour, that doubt must he set at rest by a return which has been just laid upon the Table of the House_ …"

Melbourne jotted notes as he read, tallying figures, underlining key passages on the page.

" _From that return it appears that in 1831, at the time it was proposed to emancipate the slaves, the produce of the West Indian colonies and British. Guiana was 4,103,800 cwts. of sugar; and that in 1846 it was only 2,152,155 cwts. There was, however, still a greater falling off in the production of rum. Rum, of which the produce in 1831 was 7,844,159 gallons, had fallen to 2,826,455 gallons in 1846. In coffees, also, an equal falling off had occurred, as in 1831 the produce was 20,030,802 lb., and in 1846 only 6,257,764_."

His figures were unassailable, their conclusion obvious, and no one who had fought the early battle against Britain's colonial slave trade would feel surprised at the outcome. Melbourne furrowed his brows impatiently, re-reading the whole, searching for the solution his honorable friend Lord Bentinck proposed. He found it, or thought he did, reading between the lines of the concluding paragraph – and detected the influence of Lord Palmerston too.

" _I hope, also, that the ensuing Parliament will consider whether at a less cost than half of the million now expended, it will not be possible to defeat this inhuman traffic by depriving it of its profit, and by encouraging on lower terms the introduction of free labour into the West Indian colonies. If this be done, I trust also that the West Indian colonists will be able to carry on, by their free labourers, the cultivation of their sugar and coffee as cheaply as those who employ slaves. Having made these few observations, I will conclude by stating that it is my intention, at an early period next Session, to ask for a Select Committee to inquire into the subject. The noble Lord concluded by moving— That a Select Committee be appointed to take into consideration the Petition from the Island of Jamaica, presented 21st July_."

Melbourne could go no further without venting some of the old frustration. He smacked his leg sharply with the rolled papers.

"Slavery!" he spat, unable to contain his rancor. "It beggars belief that any generation could be so blind to the inevitable consequences of such a bloody business! Now here we are still paying the price for our forebears' greedy short-sightedness."

Victoria laid down her pen and gazed at him through narrowed eyes. Melbourne felt an unmanly blush warm his cheeks.

"I apologize, ma'am, but this damnable issue has been a thorn in my side since I first entered government."

"I am pleased to know that you feel so strongly. There are some few – ignorant fellows, not much better than Mr. Marx and his ilk – who claim you supported that dreadful institution."

"I?" Melbourne heard the break in his voice; he did not hide his incredulity. "By the time I was a man, no one of my acquaintance had anything but contempt for slavery. It was stupidly unsustainable, and had been from the first. To import hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of savages sold to the slavers by their brethren…how might they have expected peace and prosperity as a result? Jamaica, five thousand square miles at most, surrounded by the sea…where were they to go, when their numbers became unmanageable or later, after emancipation? How were they to feed themselves? Even when one takes into account the survival rate, it might have been foreseen that their numbers would grow beyond that which the island could support. The House could not force the planters to turn over their wealth, and if they had by some means been constrained to do so – what then? How were these people – how _are_ the former slaves – to support themselves? They were offered a chance at repatriation but to no one's surprise, very few freed slaves wanted to return to Africa. And so now we, and future generations, must deal with the mess.”

Melbourne sighed heavily. It was an old problem and one for which no reasonable solution presented itself. Between 1662 and 1807 Britain shipped 3.1 million Africans across the Atlantic Ocean in the Transatlantic Slave Trade, and now, when those men were long since dead, Crown and Government were left with a morass of unintended consequences and insoluble problems. Mentally consigning those early proponents to the devil, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Lord Bentinck, for all his wordiness and puffery, only brought forth yet another ramification.

"A naval blockade?" Victoria guessed, when Melbourne showed her key passages in Bentinck's treatise.

"Not a full-on blockade," Melbourne responded. "I think he hopes for a Committee resolution that authorizes instead increased naval presence in the Caribbean, under the pretext of escorting merchant ships to encourage and assist the importation of free labourers into the West Indies, but in effect harrying those slave ships bringing more human cargo to Cuba and the Brazils…"

They continued working together, in companionable silence interspersed by such occasional discussion. A footman entered, setting out a luncheon of cold meat and fruit, and shortly thereafter all further work was suspended by the arrival of Princess Elizabeth, shrilly pouring out a litany of grievances, a harried governess in hot pursuit.

"I _won't_ have my hair brushed, I won't, I won't. Papa, she _hurt me!_ " Lily vented at length while both parents listened, each of them biting back a smile. The little princess was smartly attired in a riding habit which was the perfect replica of Victoria's own. "And…"

Melbourne felt the familiar warmth flood him, his heart constricted by love for this tiny, indomitable creature.

Half her head was smooth, still bearing marks of the comb which had brought order to chaos. The other half erupted in a wild halo of curls which bore strong resemblance to a rat's nest. Melbourne asked teasingly whether that was the case and received in answer one small boot stamping sharply on his instep.

"Do _not_ tease, Papa. It is _not_ funny."

"Darling," Victoria interjected calmly. "Please beg your Papa's forgiveness, and Miss Eccleston also. Then I will try for myself if I can brush the snarls from your hair."

Lily weighed this offer seriously. Melbourne looked from mother to daughter, impressed by this sign each was willing to compromise.

Victoria dismissed the governess and positioned Lily between her knees, setting to work. Some minutes later, with Melbourne successfully providing distraction, their little girl was the picture of a lady in miniature.

"I'll take her down," he offered. Lily was to ride with Leopold's youngest child. Princess Charlotte was several years older, a shy, retiring girl who, in Lily's exuberant presence, was quite overshadowed. The girls would be expected to ride side-saddle, as befitted young ladies of good birth; that would be another hurdle to overcome, a battle of wills at which, thus far, Melbourne had had only indifferent success.

♛

The Royal Palace of Laeken, once known as the Castle of Schonenberg, had been Leopold's home since he accepted the Crown in 1831. While by no means as large as Windsor, or even Buckingham Palace in London, it was a pleasant, expansive residence surrounded by an immense garden, protected by a stone wall of several kilometres. Having watched from the paddock until Lily and her companion set off on their Highland ponies, riding sedately with grooms and attendants before and behind, Melbourne gave in to temptation and made his way to the greenhouses.

That he had little time to devote to the greenhouses at Buckingham Palace, occasionally caused him to feel a twinge of guilt. It _was_ after all his home, as much as Brocket Hall. But even Victoria had no strong attachment to the place; it was a possession of the Crown, which she only held in trust as a temporary occupant and custodian. Still, Melbourne thought as he ventured within, he could and should – no, I damn well _will!_ – take more of an interest.

The Royal Greenhouses of Laeken were located within the park, attached to the palace via the orangery. The main greenhouses were linked by a never-ending maze of flowered corridors. The chief gardener was delighted to show him around, talking all the while in an excited flow of French-accented English. Camellias, orange trees and exotic African plants were tastefully displayed around the statuary and _objets d'art_ in their midst.

The tour took longer than he'd planned, so his brief trip to the stables became a two-hour absence. When he became aware of the time Melbourne excused himself and hurried back to the apartment Leopold had given Victoria for her use.

He had not yet reached her inner sanctum, when the unmistakable sound of Victoria's full-throated laughter reached him. Once, as a girl, she had been wont to laugh too loudly and long, until constant loving chastisement from her well-meaning sister and mother constrained that delightful lack of inhibition. Now, it was a sound he regarded as uniquely his own, when she was not Victoria Regina, but only his darling, precious girl, behind closed doors.

Curious – and aware of a certain irrational annoyance – Melbourne paused outside the door. _Who was she with, who amused her so?_ And more to the point, _who was privileged to have that glimpse of the private Victoria_?

Lifting his chin, Melbourne indicated the page might open the door.

Victoria had moved from the escritoire to a small brocade sofa that faced one of the Louis XIV chairs. In that chair sat a man – _young man_ came first to Melbourne's mind – with sandy blonde hair and regular features. He was properly dressed for a morning visit, his posture upright, yet oddly informal. Whatever he'd said to make Victoria laugh still lingered in the air, and as a result his expression indicated he was pleased with himself. _That, or charmed by the laughter_ _of a pretty woman?_

Her visitor rose to his feet in a graceful movement which spoke of the unconscious athleticism of a healthy young male and that, too, was the source of irrational annoyance. The fellow bowed from the neck and Melbourne inclined his own head in acknowledgement, forcing himself to smile.

"William." Her voice lilted with the remnant of humor when she spoke his name. "This is Remington Wilkes. Remi, His Grace the Duke of Melbourne."


	34. Chapter 34

_Two more days. In 48 hours, she would be standing thus, arms akimbo, in her own familiar dressing room, under her own familiar roof, within the venerable walls of Windsor._

Victoria smiled a little to herself, enjoying the peculiar mix of relief and regret that came at the end of every family visit. Their time in Belgium had passed quickly, it now seemed – the days moving swiftly, even when the hours sometimes dragged on.

At her uncle's side, she had waved to crowds ranging in size from several dozens of bankers and burghers to several thousand filling Grote Markt, the central square of Brussels. It was quite the loveliest such public assembly space in Europe – those who said so were not exaggerating. Surrounded by opulent guildhalls and the city's Town Hall, and King's House or Breadhouse, the Grand Place was the site of a famed summer celebration which drew travelers from England annually. Twice a year, at the turn of June and July, the Ommegang of Brussels commemorated the Joyous Entry of Emperor Charles V and his son Philip II in Brussels in 1549, ending with a large spectacle on the Grand Place.

For the Queen of England's visit the great square had been filled with flowers, so many that they formed a virtual carpet, and filled the air with pungent fragrance as the royal party was led from L'Étoile to Le Cygne to L'Arbre d'Or and beyond. Each of the guildhalls was more beautiful than the other, with their rich sculptural decorations, pilasters, balustrades and lavishly designed Italian Baroque gables.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the satisfaction Leopold took in displaying his intimate familial relationship with sovereign of the most powerful nation on earth, he had taken great pains to ensure they had time away from the public as well. Victoria had been wary, on guard lest he play off his old tricks, dropping a hint here, a not-so-subtly veiled criticism there, stirring up his old antipathy towards Melbourne. She soon conceded that whatever early resentment he might have felt towards a man older than himself occupying the place he had reserved for his own nephew and protégé, not even residual spite remained. It reassured her, so that some trace of her old affection reasserted itself and as she let down her guard, so did he.

William, dear William, could get along with anyone, of that Victoria had never been in doubt. He had always shown Leopold a semblance of camaraderie, nicely tinged with just a touch of deference. On this trip, finally, Victoria thought she saw just a glimmer of something warmer, if not true family feeling – and who, after all, in her own family was genuinely fond of anyone else? Certainly none of her uncles, to be sure - then at least a tepid, unstrained friendship.

When Victoria left them to dress for dinner, the two men had been reminiscing about those heady days in Brussels more than a quarter-century before. Melbourne and Caro, Emily and their brothers had been in Brussels when Wellington's Army was quartered there. Victoria wondered at her own surprise, that her uncles – not only Leopold, but her father's brothers as well – would have known the Lambs socially. Of course Leopold would have known the Lambs, just as he had met and mingled with all the notable English émigrés during that heady time culminating in Battle of Quatre Bras.

Victoria had heard before – many times, in fact – of the Duchess of Richmond's famous ball 15 June 1815. Leopold had been present, as had William and Caro, and her uncle fancied he had had the privilege of dancing with Lady Caroline. The two men were engaged, when Victoria excused herself, in a lively discussion of that memorable night.

_Four years almost to the day from my own birth_.

It was yet another reminder that William had lived more of his life without her than he would with her, and she could do without that calculation. Much as she would have liked to invite her husband to withdraw with her, to steal a few precious minutes alone before the evening's interminable dinner, Victoria refrained. Everything was going so well, it would not due to tie him to her apron strings.

The heavy leather caskets which held her jewels had been packed for their departure. Her dresser had left out only the set she would wear that evening. Victoria preferred simpler, more meaningful pieces from her own private collection for any but State occasions. Every dinner in Belgium, thus far, had been a State occasion and so she resigned herself to the substantial heft of the Turkish diamonds. By evening's end her neck would ache from the tiara's weight, her scalp would be sore from the pins discretely placed to hold it in place. As she complied with her dresser's requests to turn her head this way and that, another thought occurred, one more pleasant in nature. _At the end of the evening_ …

Naturally they did not sit near one another at dinner. An unfortunately placed Georgian epergne cheated her of even catching his eye, and so Victoria was forced to converse only with the persons who sat on her left and right, as etiquette demanded.

When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies once more, having lingered over port and cigars, Victoria hoped for an opportune moment so they could exchange a few whispered words. Silly, of course, to be so dependent on his presence, she told herself. They were no longer girl-queen and prime minister, dependent on those roles to pursue what each only knew was growing obsession.

A harpist played and she politely attended; it spared her from having to make conversation yet again with the elite – if motley – collection of royals-in-exile making extended stays at Laeken. None of these made any secret of hoping for an invitation to visit her in London, and Victoria, understanding the need of these penurious outcasts to travel from one court to another on sufferance, nonetheless knew she could not willynilly extend hospitality. Her own government must have a say in any such offer, lest it compromise diplomatic relations with some emerging state.

"…your young American?"

"Excuse me?" Victoria blinked, forcing herself to parse the question directed to her in a playful tone.

"Will your young American friend be traveling back to England with you?" The woman who addressed her widened her eyes artlessly, only emphasizing some subtext in the question. She was a handsome creature who comported herself with great dignity, despite what could only be described as _shabby_ _genteel_ refurbished gowns and a sad lack of jewels. Princess-Something, Victoria recollected, trying and failing to retrieve the name. 'Princess' by virtue of her marriage to a putative scion of some fallen House in eastern Europe. _His_ claim to recognition was little more substantive; he had coyly approached Melbourne in Victoria's presence and introduced himself as Susan's friend of years past.

" _Friend_ is not the word I would have used," William had told her later. "I ran him off, he and his brother both. She was eighteen and foolish, and Lady Branden a poor guardian of any girl's morals."

To his face, William had only replied, "Ah…" and inclined his head politely, in a gesture so dismissive that the prince had no choice but retreat in search of easier prey.

London, Brussels, Paris between the wars, were filled with such displaced persons. Unfit for any trade, unable to earn their own way except by the less reputable forms of employment – running gaming houses was a lucrative endeavor, but advantageous marriages the more respectable option – they drifted from one Court to another, ubiquitous hangers-on to those monarchs still clinging to their thrones. England's constitutional monarchy provided excuse and buffer, Victoria able to politely defer to her government ministers.

"I don't think so," Victoria replied honestly, allowing her confusion to be made plain. "Our Chamberlain arranges our travel."

She genuinely had forgotten the brief encounter with her childhood playmate. Only a certain _something_ in those inquisitive eyes told her to whom the princess was referring.

Disappointed by her failure to evoke a response, the woman drifted away.

Pretending disinterest, Victoria kept close track of Leopold's other guests, waiting for the first sign she might excuse herself and retire. Too early or too obvious and it would put a damper on the evening, and she did not want to repay Leopold and Louisa's affection with a snub. At her own Court, when Victoria gave the slightest indication that she was ready to retire, her guests would instantly take their leave. Here, she was not the hostess, but also not a mere evening visitor, so she decided to choose her moment wisely.

_Where was William_? Victoria murmured a more vague question to her Aunt Louisa. The French-born Belgian Queen had been raised in Versailles, and imbued with all the social graces of that rarified atmosphere.

"Our husbands have made their escape, long since. Your husband is no more a devotee than mine," Louisa answered in her prettily accented English, inclining her head towards the vocalist still accompanied by the harp, now joined by a second and third instrument.

"Then they are fortunate," Victoria said, smiling ruefully. "Will it be awful of me to retire early? I do want to look in on the children, and tomorrow –"

"Tomorrow you set sail. Early rather than late, I think – before the weather changes. Channel crossings, even in this age of steam engines, can be treacherous when the days grow shorter."

Louisa patted Victoria's hand. "I will say goodnight, my dear niece. They –" she waved dismissively towards the room at large. "will stay or go. Half of them at least are here on sufferance and consider it their duty to amuse me."

Victoria took advantage of Louisa's understanding and slipped out, followed by her lady-in-waiting. Laeken was smaller overall than Buckingham Palace, certainly smaller than Windsor, but it was built on a rectangular foundation and the corridors were long and straight. The apartments she and William and the children were given each opened off that central corridor, as did the main stairway. It was an arrangement which provided little privacy, and which had also allowed a visitor easy access.

Once he withdrew, Victoria had given little further thought to Remington Wilkes. Remi belonged to a time and place so far removed from her present life that novelty alone made his visit tolerable. Not that _he_ was offensive in any way; as a boy, he had been likeable and amusing because he was so _different_ than her cousins. He attended Eton as had several FitzClarences and through some sequence of events that no child looked closely at he had made the acquaintance of her _legitimate_ cousins as well. Aunt Adelaide enjoyed organizing children's parties at Bushy, and Uncle William enjoyed thwarting her mother's parental authority, so Victoria had escaped her mother's strict supervision. That summer she had discovered freedom and dancing and unrestrained giddiness in the pursuit of ordinary pleasures. The foolishness which passed for flirtation when one was barely thirteen and boys were as likely to disappear on adventures of their own as to pursue tête-à-tête with even a girl they liked, had been only a small part of that wonderful summer.

As summer ended, they had all gone their separate ways. Shortly thereafter, the King had resigned himself to the inevitable and Alexandrina Victoria went from _Heiress Presumptive_ to _Heiress Apparent_. When she had looked back on her summer of freedom, the American boy scarcely figured in her memories. Freedom from constant oversight, freedom from corrections on her posture, table manners, the way she laughed and the manner in which she put a fork in her mouth. Freedom from harping criticisms that slowly had their effect, so that she became painfully insecure in her person, dubious of her ability to be pleasing, and only dignity remained.

If Victoria had any inkling that the brief afternoon encounter had meant more to her husband than it did to her, she would have detained him after Remi made his bow and retreated. She would have tried to explain it all, and of course William would have understood. But in Victoria's mind, silly children running as wild as American Indians in the unkempt grounds of Bushy House in Teddington, taking part in children's dances whilst good-natured Queen Adelaide kept time to the music, was so distant and trite that it lacked all importance. An American visitor, childhood playmate of that all-too-brief summer, couldn't pose any threat to the sophisticated, whimsical, altogether-distinguished and charming William Lamb.

Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed, flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Victoria debated only briefly walking down that semi-public corridor, weighing the potential embarrassment of being seen in her slippers and dressing gown, against the warmth and welcome she would find in her husband's suite.

Victoria turned the handle of the heavy door and used her shoulder to push it inward. There were no hall pages at this end of the corridor, so she was forced to struggle against the weight. The door swung open so suddenly that her entrance was less than dignified, and she giggled, amused at the spectacle she made.

The small sitting room was empty, but the warm glow of a lamp reassured Victoria that she was not alone.

"Darling?" she cooed. "The mountain has come to Mohammed. You will not come to me, so here I am."

Victoria loosened the sash on her dressing gown and shrugged so that it slipped off her shoulders, baring her arms.

Her husband's valet, normally expressionless even on those occasions when one or the other of them interrupted the other's toilette, was taken unawares. His mouth popped open with such a comical expression that Victoria laughed once, before recollecting herself. She drew herself up to her full height, retied the sash on her gown and lifted her chin.

"His Grace is not here, Your Majesty," Baines said ponderously.

"I can see that," Victoria snapped, embarrassed and angry at herself.

"May I beg leave to withdraw, ma'am?" the man asked with great dignity. Then he relented. "Or – if I might suggest – may I escort you back to your rooms? I believe this palace does not offer a great deal of privacy, and even less security."

Victoria thought briefly, weighing his offer. "No, I thank you. I will wait."

She was not quite certain _where_ they slept, her own dresser and this valet, when they were not in attendance. Surely it was not far distant? It couldn't be, judging by how quickly each of them responded to any summons. It would be safe enough.

Victoria accepted the man's offer to procure a sherry, and when he had departed she settled herself on the four-poster bed with a small glass of nutty and quite good Amontillado, determined to wait.

♛

The ticking of the clock was relentless.

Victoria had picked up a small bound volume from the bedside table. It contained poems written by – who else? – Frances Anne Kemble. Not a new acquisition, or at least, she noted with some relief, not inscribed by the author. Its presence irritated her already-frayed nerves, but she forced herself to read, if only to pass the time.

Victoria emptied the first glass of sherry – hardly larger than a thimble, she told herself – and poured another.

And she waited. First she willed herself to stay awake and then, willed herself to sleep, only to pass the time. Contrarily, sleep would not come and so she waited some more.

The clock, a handsome ormolu, was her only companion. At home, she might have a wayward child in bed, certainly one of the dogs. Here – and it only, irrationally, annoyed her more, that they were not magically transported back to the dear familiar rooms of their family's life – she was cold and alone and had no idea where to look for William, nor could she go in search of him if she did.

Suddenly – for so it seemed, despite the long, expectant vigil – that heavy outer door opened with a barely-heard _snick_ of the latch. Victoria held her breath, waiting, as if something unforeseen and awful might appear. When it was only the dear, familiar outline of that beloved figure she exhaled a gusty breath.

"You startled me!" Victoria exclaimed.

"I might say the same." That roughened, raspy voice, still as thrilling to her ears as the first time she heard it, drawled with the lazy upper-class accent of Devonshire House habitués. That drawl she associated with young William Lamb, perhaps because Emily had once teased him for reverting to the mode of speech he'd adopted during his courtship of Caro. When he was in his cups – never sloppily intoxicated, like some men became, but less than fully sober – that drawl came out. Not always or even frequently, but often enough that Victoria knew he had imbibed more than usual. She frowned. This was _her_ family visit, their last full night in Brussels –

"You suddenly appear to be on very good terms with my uncle." Victoria's own tones were clipped and precise. So much so that he could not mistake her own annoyance.

He blinked owlishly, the improbably long dark lashes on his beautiful grey eyes sweeping in a downward arc.

"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I must ring for my valet. The blasted fellow always waits up for me – but when I need his services –"

"I sent him away."

Victoria swung her feet to the floor and padded barefoot to stand before him. She reached up without invitation and began coaxing the close-fitting evening coat off his shoulders. He compliantly moved his arms at her direction, but otherwise did nothing to help.

The intricately tied cravat posed more of a challenge, made more difficult because of their difference in height.

"Oh, do sit down, William. I can't reach this."

"What are you doing, ma'am?" He asked, and his puzzlement was so genuine that Victoria laughed.

"Undressing you," she told him patiently. "Now sit."

When he had lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed Victoria positioned herself between his legs and worked the recalcitrant knot loose. Then she unfastened his collar and slipped each strap of his suspenders down.

"You, my darling, are tipsy," she chided playfully.

"You, my dear ma'am, are…." His voice trailed off, and Victoria wondered what he had intended to say. She tilted her head inquisitively. "…are a dear girl. But you shouldn't be here. What will people say?"

It was such a ludicrous question that Victoria laughed aloud, feeling residual annoyance dissipate. It was rather endearing, to see her much-admired husband in this condition. Sweet, vulnerable – certainly not loud or obnoxious or clumsy, as some men became when they consumed strong spirits to excess.

She had come to find him, and why? For companionship; because she missed his warm, comforting bulk beside her in bed; missed those late-night talks they had; because he was her touchstone, her surety, her security, and even this brief nocturnal separation discombobulated her, left her feeling adrift.

Standing before him, her toes curled against the cold floor, hearing him drawl in the accents of an earlier time, so close she could make out the fine lines creasing that tender skin beside each eye, could trace the outline of his strong Roman nose, his generous mouth, Victoria felt a powerful current of wanting surge through her belly.

He had told her once that strong drink increases desire while it decreases ability – one of those witty asides that were etched in her memory beside more profound observations. Victoria decided that the wisest course would be to put him to bed, to settle him comfortably and leave chamber pot and flagon of water within reach. With that intention in mind, she crouched to remove his shoes and stockings. Then she tugged his shirt from his trousers, and encouraged him to rise so that she could complete her self-assigned task.

Melbourne got to his feet unaided, only swaying slightly. It was enough so that she felt incontrovertible proof that he was not _always_ correct in his proclamations.

Victoria needed no convincing. When he lowered himself atop her, if he didn't entirely support his own weight that was good too. Having him _on_ her and _in_ her, wordless, Victoria felt entirely consumed, every hollow place filled. _This_ , she thought, and said it aloud. _This_ transcends words and even intent. Nothing else but this primal can fill the void. _As long as I have this I will never be alone_.

After, long after, when he finally rolled off to lay beside her, he spoke and that drawl was gone.

"Did I hurt you?" Melbourne asked. Victoria was so startled she repeated the word.

" _Hurt_ me? No darling. Why would you ask such a thing?"

"I didn't – I wasn't myself. I'm afraid I drank too deeply tonight. I didn't – we didn't…"

Victoria knew what he was trying to say. _William_ had taught her so very much, things that made the coming-together of a man and a woman so much more than mere animalistic need and a desire to procreate. Finesse, attentiveness, a giving-and-taking of mutual pleasure, all those things provided illimitable pleasure and deepened the bond between people who loved one another, even if he had told her too that love wasn't always part of the equation. But in the end, she thought, perhaps he wasn't _quite_ right about that either. Sometimes it didn't have to be about those explorations, the prolonging of erotic sensation. Sometimes it was about being filled, about coming together, _connection_ in the most basic sense of that word.

"It was good," Victoria said simply.

Melbourne started to laugh suddenly, that wonderful uninhibited laughter which came from his belly and shook his whole frame.

"Tell me," she prompted.

"I was in a foul mood today, and that – not your uncle's scintillating company – is why I stayed late and drank heavily. I was in a black mood, angry. When I realized that you had a _past_ I was no part of."

"'Past'?" Victoria repeated the word, wondering if he was still under the influence, despite the sound of sobriety. "Do you mean – _Remi_? Darling, I was a little girl…just turned 13. We played tricks on the housemaids and…oh, all the things which you and your brothers and sisters took for granted, I did that one summer. With Remi and my cousins and even the FitzClarences, whom Mama would never allow me to meet before then."

"I know, sweetheart, I know all of that and it didn't change the way I felt one whit. I suppose I'm so accustomed to thinking you came into the world new, fully formed, as the young woman whose hand I kissed at Kensington Palace that morning. Created just for me, to form and shape and…oh, it makes no sense at all, I'm fully aware."

"Oh, my darling Lord M, I _am_ that girl you awakened from a long sleep, just like a fairy tale. I never mentioned Remi, never even _thought_ of him, since that summer. It was all of a piece, being away from Mama's constant harping and even dear Lehzen's lessons and her _earnestness_. Uncle Leopold's loving guidance, but always seeking to mold and influence me…." Victoria haltingly explained as best she could, that one magical summer when she glimpsed life beyond palace walls.

"I know, my darling. Or rather, I _want_ to know. Alas, one's feelings do not always coincide with one's understanding. John Heywood had the right of it. 'An old fool is the worst kind of fool, as in He's marrying a woman fifty years his junior—there's no fool like an old fool.' He wrote those words in 1546 or thereabouts, but may have been speaking to me."

He was still laughing, only silently now – Victoria felt the tremors through her cheek, where it rested on his chest.

"You are not _old_ , Lord M. Don't say that please." She sighed deeply. "I was longing for home, earlier this evening. But here – with you – is _home_ , wherever we might be."

"I think your oldest son might beg to differ, my love. But yes, I take your meaning and concur. So long as I have you I am home."

"I'm _not_ returning to my own apartment tonight. I am going to sleep right here, and tomorrow when he wakes us, your chivalrous valet may escort me back to my room."


	35. Chapter 35

_Morning arrived and wakefulness descended, snatching away the comforting blanket of sleep._ Victoria's first sensation was one of weight, leaden, energy-sapping, bone-deep aching heaviness.

They had returned late the evening before, landing at Portsmouth and then transferring people and baggage to a smaller royal yacht which would take them the rest of the way. That would account for it, Victoria decided, this deeply unpleasant fatigue that made her want to roll over and pull the pillows over her head. The exhaustion natural to a woman in her interesting – and entirely unwelcome – condition, mental and physical energy already sapped by five births in seven years, expecting a sixth, and compelled to traipse across the Channel so _Albert_ and Uncle could parade her in triumph through the streets of Brussels.

Marianne Skerrett kept for herself the prerogative of waking the Queen, tap-tapping on the stout bedchamber door, always the same two sharp knocks in quick succession. Without waiting for a response, the well-oiled latch would release, making no sound, and the dresser would step inside. Victoria sometimes missed the early days when dear Lehzen was the first to greet her, cooing and matter-of-fact at the same time, stolid and loving and loyal. But that was then and this was now, and it was no longer fitting that she be attended by the woman who had once rocked her to sleep, had nurtured and educated, protected and served, until her possessiveness meant that Albert could no longer tolerate the bond between mistress and servant.

Victoria was briefly startled by a wayward thought, that it might be pleasant to sip morning chocolate whilst lounging abed. She even imagined what it might be like to lay like this with her husband, sharing an intimacy that was based on companionship and mutual understanding which owed nothing to those acts which took place in the dark, acts which were conducted in silence, serious as a sacramental duty.

She pursed her lips, shook her head, wondering where that strange notion came from. Sloth was not to be tolerated, and it was her duty to set an example of rectitude. Slatterns and sluts might lol in bed, but such decadent habits were not seemly and would only encourage those who looked to the Queen and the Royal Family for their model of wholesome family values.

She almost sighed, and then wondered anew at the strange turn her thoughts were taking.

Albert was already up and dressed, no doubt – he rose early and took exercise no matter the weather. He no longer engaged in sport, considering it too closely linked with the excesses of youth, and rejected the calisthenic regimen that had once caused Englishmen to snicker. A forced march around the grounds, his pace brisk, even militaristic, unattended by any unruly pack of children or dogs, that was the only exercise suitable for a sober middle-aged man.

_When did we become so old_? Victoria wondered, picturing Albert in her mind's eye grimly swinging his arms and lifting his knees on that stern morning march. His disappearing hairline, her own lank thinning hair, both of them wan and colorless. Days filled with work, his and hers, Albert taking his own role ever more seriously. They didn't laugh anymore – well, had they ever, really?

Mutual respect and common interest in the business of governance, she with the awareness of duty and destiny that charted the course of her life before she'd left the schoolroom and he, with the compensatory determination to carve himself out a niche in his adopted homeland. _Compensatory?_ _Yes; compensatory,_ Victoria told herself. She understood little about her husband's inner life, but more than she wanted to, and preferred it that way. They each of them had their secrets, wistful, long-buried yearnings kept so long out of sight that those remembered feelings scarcely seemed real.

She went through the steps of her morning toilette with scarcely-paid attention, lifting her arms so her servant might wash her, stepping into clean linen, turning at the necessary moment so ribbons could be tied, stays laced, bodice buttoned.

Fashionable hair dressing styles were the stuff of a girl and flyaway strands which might otherwise soften her features were, as Albert had once said, not suitable to a wife and mother. He later nodded his approval, on that memorable occasion, when she reappeared some minutes later with the offending hair parted ruler-straight and confined so severely that the pins made her scalp sore.

Likewise, her dresses were considered dowdy and unflattering by her more fashionable ladies-in-waiting. Charlotte Canning had once written her daughter exactly that, and to no one's surprise her unflattering assessment of the Queen's wardrobe promptly made its way back to Court, but any dismay Victoria felt was short-lived. If Albert approved, nothing else mattered. As always she looked to him to tell her who she should be, and his unvarying opinion was _wife_ and _mother_. By his definition, those titles implied putting aside the things of youth and frivolity in favor of a sober abstemious life.

_Wool-gathering again! What is wrong with you?_ The voice in her head was softly chiding – Lehzen, rather than Albert. Victoria shook herself briskly. She smoothed non-existent wrinkles from the fabric of her plain gown and squared her shoulders, prepared to face the world.

Albert was seated at the breakfast table, but the plate before of him was spotless. He had waited, then, and would be annoyed at her tardy arrival.

He did not have to say so; Victoria knew. She summoned an apologetic smile. Dry toast, a boiled egg – Victoria wished they might break their fast with something less monotonous, but Albert had fixed tastes and could not abide anything more odiferous in the morning. Bertie had only recently been caught smuggling bacon wrapped in a napkin, and had staunchly refused to name the accomplice who supplied it.

While they consumed their meagre meal Albert read aloud from the Times those articles which he found suitable and relevant. Victoria listened closely, knowing that there would be something she must reflect on and be prepared to discuss, but over his narrow broadcloth-covered shoulder her attention was caught by misty morning light. That light had a magical quality, the power to transport – to where? It was not the neatly manicured gardens of the palace she imagined. Somewhere in the country, not the wilder north but rather the gently civilized Midlands.

That memory – _no, not memory; instead, a sort of nostalgia for something that had never been_ – tugged at Victoria's attention throughout the morning. Albert opening the red box, going through the dispatches first, didn't cause the usual burning annoyance that settled in her stomach, sour, with no outlet. In their working office, desks butted against one another so that she was never beyond his oversight, the draperies were normally drawn in the morning. Rather than call for the hall page, who would summon a footman, Victoria tugged at the heavy panels herself.

Autumn alone brought that ephemeral haze, but never before had Victoria found it so compelling. Balmoral, in the Highlands, was surrounded by the rugged, stalwart Scotchmen that Albert found so admirable, but there was also an undercurrent of mysticism in those otherwise-pragmatic people, and there was as much talk of faeries and warlocks and witches on the greater Balmoral estate as might be found in any Irish hollow. Victoria could not say why, but that autumn haze brought to mind superstitions and curses and even portals to another dimension. All the foolishness which had so inspired Mrs. Shelley, when she spent that momentous summer with Lord Byron.

Again, that tugging – _Lord Byron_ \- a thoroughly disreputable man, with his posing and affectation, even worse, his licentiousness, the very opposite of the sort of man Albert epitomized. Well, they were all dead and buried long since, so how could it matter? Why should the name of an overrated poet and ground fog which would burn off by noon, the rays of a weakening October sun reflected off the quite naturally golden and orange-hued foliage, cause her to feel such peculiar melancholy?

That would be the last such random musing that caught Victoria unaware. Albert's disapproving gaze burned into her back and she turned away from the window, abashed. He had already stacked papers on her blotter – documents requiring her signature and seal, newspaper clippings and several flimsy dispatches that bore all the hallmarks of their journey from the other side of the world.

Temper flared in her breast, then receded. It was _her_ responsibility, nay, her God-given _duty_ to consider those matters that affected her realm. Each time she protested Albert only smiled, his insufferable little close-mouthed smile, and it said her protests were foolish and trite. God may have given her the Crown, but as a mere female He had also given her a wise husband to honor and obey. Several times Albert had embellished that pious speech with mention of their children as proof the union was blessed. Vickie and Bertie and even Alice had worn the mantle of paternal and Heavenly approval. But now there Alfred and Helena as well, and her thickening waist was a reminder of yet another such blessed event expected in the spring. Albert no longer used the steady arrival of children as evidence of their good fortune, or even as the welcome proof of his own virility.

Victoria read and made notes, her small cramped hand at odds with Albert's bold black strokes. They worked together mostly in silence, broken only by an occasional expression of approval or disapprobation from Albert. At several points, Victoria was almost tempted to comment on an inadvertently amusing turn of phrase. Once or twice some mildly humorous observation formed in her mind, but she stopped herself before giving these expression. Albert, Dear Albert, disapproved strongly of levity, and had no appreciation for the ridiculous. He did not see any reason for laughter at a long-winded sermonizing petitioner. Pomposity he equated with worthiness, and flippancy with unsteadiness of character. Governing was serious business, of course, but must there be _no_ room for laughter? _No; of course not_ , Victoria knew. But once, there had been someone who laughed freely; once, there had been someone who watched with delighted approval when she giggled, chortled, bantered.

The stillness was broken finally by Albert's secretary, coming to fetch him for the afternoon ceremony. Victoria arranged her features to show him the expression he expected to see. Albert was so full of himself, donning that absurd gold-braided uniform coat that Mr. Anson held out. The sight touched her in an almost maternal way, dear Albert holding himself stiffly erect, inordinately pleased with his own consequence.

"The people are certain to show their love, and I owe it to them," he'd said, by way of explanation for commandeering a general's insignia. Victoria could no longer show herself to the people - it would be indelicate, as her condition became apparent - and Albert stepped to the forefront, taking on her public duties as he had during every previous confinement. He imagined the cheers were for _him_ , but they're not, Victoria thought spitefully. Not really. Without his marriage to me, he would be married to some nobody in one of the impoverished German principalities or...or...teaching in Bonn, freed of the obligation to marry any female at all.

"The Royal Albert Bridge," Victoria pronounced, plucking an infinitesimal bit of lint from her husband's lapel. Bertie should go with him, she thought, and had expressed that hope before. Albert claimed he did not want to interrupt the boy's education, but she suspected he was motivated by a jealous desire to keep the attention on himself. He did not _like_ their son, was the inescapable truth, and the boy sensed it and behaved accordingly. 

Anson cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at the clock. Victoria saw them off, even stood on the balcony so Albert would see her if he looked back. Then she walked slowly back to the desk, lowered herself to the chair and buried her face in her hands for a long moment. Then she commenced, with great deliberation, to begin working once more.

At twenty minutes to twelve, just before high noon, on the 26th day of October 1847, whilst reading an account of General Winfield Scott's entry into Mexico City, after which he maintained order in the Mexican capital, and an analysis of the subsequent Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which brought an end to the war, Queen Victoria burst into a torrent of tears so violent that it quite obscured a page of blue-black ink.

♛

Tears soaked into her pillow, surprising her awake, and Victoria jerked into consciousness so suddenly that she was left breathless and discombobulated. Her throat was thick, as though she had been sobbing for an extended period, and her nose was quite stuffed.

She felt oddly disoriented and looked about to anchor herself. A cup of chocolate, surely grown cold, and plate of biscuits were evidence her maid had come and gone. The draperies were pulled back and from her vantage Victoria could see just a sliver of bright blue cloudless sky. She frowned at this evidence she had overslept, and then remembered their late night return. Landing in Portsmouth, they had planned to travel the rest of the way in one of the smaller royal yachts. Some delay had entailed a wait at the harbor, and then the invasion of a local hostelry unaccustomed to entertaining such illustrious visitors. When finally – _finally_ – they reached their destination, it was long after midnight and even the stoic Guardsmen bore signs of hurriedly scrambling into position.

A muffled sound communicated itself from the room adjoining the bedchamber. Not alone then, or not entirely alone, Victoria told herself, and the idea was both oddly thrilling and tinged with apprehension.

_Who will I find_? She wondered, and was able to laugh at such absurd speculation.

Victoria clambered out of bed and crossed the expanse of floor in her bare feet, soundless. She turned the well-oiled handle and tugged at the door, and what she saw made her smile.

Melbourne stood in a familiar pose, chin lifted so that he could arrange his neckcloth in those intricate folds and deliberate creases gentlemen of fashion preferred. There were no windows in the dressing room to admit natural light, and a single lantern illuminated the space. Its warm glow accentuated the golden tan he had acquired on their crossing. A thick head of hair, soft silver curls feathered against that handsome profile.

Victoria approached from behind and stretched her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back.

"Mmmmmm, nice," she whispered, pushing herself away just as his valet entered. The man held out several waistcoats for his master's approval and Melbourne in turn looked at her.

"That one," Victoria said surely, pointing to black silk thick with embroidery in autumnal bronzes and blues.

"I suppose I will have to relent in the matter of a uniform," he said, the words heavy with resignation.

As the Queen's consort and a royal duke, he could adopt any regimental uniform he chose. What he _chose_ was the same exquisitely tailored black coat and narrow trousers Brummell had decreed was the only acceptable costume for a gentleman a quarter-century before. Lapel width and overall length might vary by year, and neckcloths become more or less elaborately arranged, but nothing much else had changed since those days. Only his waistcoats displayed Melbourne's quirky sartorial tastes, and his own valet and Victoria's chief dresser conspired to coordinate the colors they wore.

"You will be on the Royal Barge," Victoria reassured.

"Ah but if the people are determined to see me as your proxy, they should at least be rewarded by a confirmed sighting. Wellington advised me long since, to sport the most garish uniform I could commandeer. The Hussars, perhaps, varied with an Admiral's coat. Your uncle suggested the same thing and he made a certain amount of sense. I've told you often enough that in this modern age royalty must be seen to be believed, and it's high time I abide by my own dictum."

Victoria tilted her head back so that she could study his expression.

"Poor darling…one more in a never-ending series of sacrifices you are forced to make," she said, teasing and not teasing.

"There are compensations," he pretended to grumble.

Victoria satisfied herself that he was not truly peeved. In the past ten years he had been edging more and more closely to the edge of an untenable precipice, the very position he had been determined, early on, to avoid – that of a presumptuous commoner usurping his betters, a seducer of girls climbing from bedroom to Throne Room

"You don't mind, really?"

"I don't mind, really. _You_ know, my heart, and those who have any opinion at all are favorably disposed to us. None of the catastrophes I had foreseen came to pass, and so if a red coat and gold braid pleases the people, who am I to skulk about incognito?"

Victoria stepped further back, to allow him to finish his toilette uninterrupted. She was quiet, content to admire the appearance he made in his white shirt and close-fitting trousers, as he brushed his hair and buttoned the chosen waistcoat.

"I had a bad dream," she said abruptly, looking down so that her hair obscured her face. "I don't remember it precisely, but it was…it left me feeling very sad and strange."

"Better now, sweetheart? If not, I have the perfect remedy. I have promised my agent to ride out and inspect the tenants' cottages, before the season advances further. All the crops are in – we were fortunate again this year – and there's still time to repair any roofs that require rethatching."

"Do you think I should go?" Victoria asked dubiously. A three weeks' absence in Brussels, followed shortly thereafter by a visit to Hertfordshire? Would it seem as though she were gallivanting about instead of doing her duty in London?

"Send a note to Lord John, and let him know we will be gone into the country for a few days. This run of splendid fall weather can't last forever. Brocket Hall Estate shows to great advantage in the autumn, all ablaze with color. The morning mists, a slight haziness to the light…if I were a painter I would capture it on canvas."

Something in his words, that descriptive turn of phrase, gave Victoria a remembered pang. _Was it autumn in my dream? What happened to make me sad?_ She searched her mind, but could call up no exact recollection. Dreams did that, tended to vanish in the light of day, dissipating much as that early mist Melbourne spoke of.

"We will," she decided. "We'll take the children? I don't want to leave Liam again, even if it does interrupt his studies."

"Of course. Liam is old enough to ride out with us, and you, my dear heart, can play Lady Melbourne."

"Oh you," Victoria huffed a laugh, swatting his arm. "It's not _playing_. If I'm not quite sure where my duty lays, I have the housekeeper to guide me. She will pack baskets with soup and cakes, and Lily and I will call at the rectory."

"Now go, and dedicate the bridge. Look at me, I am still in my nightdress."

"Very well, I will do my duty to the Crown and wave and smile and declare the Royal Albert Memorial Bridge open."


	36. Chapter 36

_(Click on image to see/hear video)_

Melbourne held the reins loosely, trusting his bay gelding to find the way home. He was tired, spent from hours in the saddle, sore from trudging through freshly turned soil to inspect the newly-sown winter crops, throat raspy-raw from a day's talking capped by several hours in the village taproom where tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air. But it was a good sort of weariness, result of unaccustomed exertion in the open air, a day spent with yeoman farmers, his own tenants and neighborhood freeholders. There was something especially satisfying about the rituals of late autumn, crops in, animals fat and healthy for the winter ahead, stolid Hertfordshire men eager to show off the improvements they'd made and the use to which they put his investments. Roofs had been mended, ramshackle cottages put to rights, and farm equipment well-maintained.

Under the aegis of a competent and conscientious agent and benefiting from a steady infusion of capital, the Brocket Hall estate was considered a prime example of what a good landlord might accomplish and how tenants and farm laborers could flourish without recourse to revolutionary concepts. One hundred and twenty-odd miles to the northwest, Melbourne Hall likewise had been improved by investment from that same source and Fred, by all accounts, was turning the gardens of the estate proper into a veritable showpiece.

Melbourne himself was almost entirely reconciled to the fact that, despite his best efforts, he _had_ benefited from his marriage in ways he had not intended. Now, nearly ten years on, it scarcely stung at all, that anyone might whisper he had taken advantage of a young girl in ways both emotional and pecuniary. They had, as all husbands and wives must, worked it out between them, how to join fortunes so that neither had the upper hand. Truth be told, Victoria's private fortune was more modest than anyone might assume. Crown lands and Crown income aside, she had inherited little from her perpetually-indebted father, so that in fact Melbourne's own principal exceeded her own meager investment in the 'Change.

He had put the entire issue of Marriage Settlements into Robert Peel's capable hands, during the short period between Albert's death and their own Christmas Eve exchange of vows. Peel, as Prime Minister, and Arthur Wellesley, as Victoria's named Trustee, between them drafted a sensible, even parsimonious, agreement that kept control of Victoria's personal fortune in her own hands. It was she who rebuked them, and she who tied her own sense of security, of _belonging_ , to the right and the duty to contribute to the running of their marital home. In return, Melbourne had bequeathed Brocket Hall and the surrounding lands to her personally, to be a separately-held private residence for the Queen and her descendants. That thought led to another, one which sent faint shivers through him. There would be descendants, _her_ descendants and _his_ , living on this land, calling Brocket Hall home, and for a moment it was as though he could glimpse future generations strolling those dear halls, sons and daughters of a distant great-great-grandchild sliding down the curved bannister as he and his own brothers and sisters once had.

Would they see the Reynolds painting, of three _Affectionate Brothers_ , and speculate on those ancient days? Would they look up at his own mother and contemplate her strong character, or see Caro's cropped curls and speculate on her connection to them?

 _The House of Melbourne_. Victoria had been determined, eloquent and prosaic. It was a good English name, more suited to the reigning monarchs of Great Britain than the _House of Hanover_ or even, God forbid, _Saxe-Coburg and Gotha_.

His mind wandering over these scattered reflections, Melbourne only belatedly realized that the lane had opened up, providing a vista that would never grow old. Against the glomming, every window of the Hall spilled golden light onto darkening grounds. _Home_.

Melbourne dismounted with a spry agility he was far from feeling. He tossed his reins to a waiting boy and paused only to pat the horse's neck before crossing his own threshold.

Lamps had been lit in anticipation of his arrival and he didn't doubt he was long overdue. Soft muted sounds from the small family dining room spoke of cutlery and china being laid and if the green baize door stopped the smells of cooking from reaching him, Melbourne didn't doubt that dinner preparations were under way.

He questioned his butler and received the answer, that _Lady Melbourne_ had retired to her apartments. It was the appellation she preferred at Brocket Hall, and only those servants who were brought down from the capital used _Majesty_ within these walls. She was doubtless changing for dinner; Melbourne calculated he might just be able to steal a few quite minutes with her.

Those plans went awry when the sound of hearty male laughter reached his ears. Almost a neighing laugh, once heard and never forgotten – Melbourne turned away from the stairs and followed the sound.

Arthur Wellesley stood with his hand resting on the large globe which resided beside Melbourne's desk. His younger son Charles and Will Cowper were focused on something the great man was saying.

"William!" Wellington brayed in that gruff soldier's voice. "You see we have bivouacked in your library. When the ladies join us it will be time and enough to put on our company manners."

"Arthur, I am delighted to see you've made yourself at home." Melbourne crossed the room in a few long strides and shook the Iron Duke's hand. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Elizabeth was given leave to spend a few weeks at Stratford Staye, and I decided to accompany her on the journey back to London. Fortunately we got word that Her Majesty was here for a week so –" Wellington spread his hands, palms up. "-here we are."

Lady Elizabeth Douro was one of Victoria's ladies-in-waiting. She and her father-in-law were the best of friends, which was more than could be said for the old Duke's relationship with his eldest son. The younger son, Charles, lacked that prickly self-consciousness which came from growing up in the Great Man's shadow.

"You're very welcome, of course. I trust my people have seen to your needs?" Wellington, still maintained his habitual upright, military bearing. At 79 he was ten full years Melbourne's senior and showed little sign of conceding to those advancing years. Rumor had it that he had not lost his appetite for feminine companionship, and Melbourne recalled the succession of celebrated mistresses who had fawned over Wellington over the years. Caro had briefly formed one of their number, he knew, recalling those heady days in Brussels just before Napoleon's escape from Elba. Then, after Byron's marriage, he himself had been grateful for anything that distracted her from the frenetic, almost mad, pose of gay unconcern she had adopted. Rather the Field Marshal himself than a dozen junior officers hopping in and out of her bed.

It was Belgium Wellington had been speaking of, Melbourne surmised. Reliving his glory days, and who could blame him? Young men would never know what those days had been like, when the glory and misery of war were so closely intertwined.

"I was telling these fellows that no matter how much trumpery was put about after the fact, my presence in Brussels was not a source of undiluted pleasure for Lord Bathurst. The first order of business was to inform him that the Army was in a bad way. I received disquieting accounts of the Belgian troops, and required an additional forty thousand good British infantry to be sent with not less than a hundred and fifty pieces of field artillery. 'You have not called out the militia,' I told him, 'or announced such an intention in your message to Parliament. Without these, military operations are out of the question.' That Colquhoun Grant must come out as Head of the Intelligence Department, I left no doubt."

Melbourne tossed off the fine brandy he had poured himself as though it were porter and eyed Wellington's natty black tailcoat. The Duke had already washed off the dirt of the road – he refused to travel by rail – and dressed in the evening tailcoat and knee-breeches of a formal dinner.

"I am still in all my dirt, you see. If you have all you need, I will excuse myself to change before we ring for dinner."

"You go ahead, Melbourne," the Duke said, as graciously as though he were the host and Melbourne a just-arrived guest. "Don't feel compelled to rush. Dinner can be put back a quarter-hour."

Melbourne almost entirely suppressed his grin and bowed, relieved at his narrow escape from time spent listening to Wellington reminisce that could be better spent with Victoria.

A low fire burned in the grate and the draperies had been drawn over windows overlooking the South Lawn. The air was both warm and moist, redolent with Attar of roses and nose-prickling milled French soap. Melbourne loosened his neckcloth and shrugged out of the rugged tweed jacket that smelled of horse, manure and pipe smoke.

The large soaking tub held water still warm enough to give off tendrils of steam, but was otherwise empty. A smaller version was occupied. Lily clapped her hands with joy, then lifted her arms to signify her expectation that he would pick her up.

Victoria knelt beside her, scooping handfuls of water to rinse soap from rosy skin. They made a charming picture, mother and daughter flushed pink, sweet-smelling and clean. Lily's hair, as dark as her mother's, was loosely piled atop her head to keep it out of the bathwater. Victoria's had been washed, Melbourne guessed from the Turkish toweling wrapped like a turban.

He lowered himself onto a handy bench, smiling, pleased with the picture they made.

Lily did not protest when Victoria helped her out of the tub; she bundled the girl into a bath sheet and handed her off to a nursery maid.

"I dare not embrace you, Mrs. Melbourne. I stink of the fields." Contradicting himself, Melbourne rested his palms on Victoria's hips and pulled her close. He felt a sudden welcome pang of desire and thought regretfully of their guests, waiting below.

Victoria sniffed and her breath tickled his neck.

"You smell like the outdoors. And like a man. Lord M." She sounded pert and pleased with herself, smug in her knowledge that he was hers. It gratified Melbourne enough that he stirred, now fully aroused.

"You!" Victoria nudged him with her knee, knowing. "We cannot tarry overlong. Go. Come to me when you are dressed for dinner and we will go down together. Later…"

She lapped at the lobe of his ear, teasing, her tongue as warm and rough as a cat's. Melbourne laughed, and smacked her soundly on the rump to move her along.

♛

Dining off of trays in their own apartment, even perhaps taking early dinner with the children in their nursery, would have been the perfect end to his day. Dining below, with three guests at their table, was not as arduous as Melbourne anticipated. Wellington dominated the conversation, naturally – not because his manners were not flawless, but because the stories he told, the times through which he had lived, the events in which he had played such a central role, were genuinely interesting to the younger people at table. Victoria had not been born until three years after the great victory at Waterloo and Melbourne's own nephew had been a babe in arms. The Duke's own son Charles had surely heard all of his father's stories before, but he had none of his elder brother's awkward resentment of the nation's hero and instead showed unabashed admiration and genuine affection in equal measure.

" _You_ were there, Melbourne – you tell these young people – " Wellington showed an offhanded generosity when he included Melbourne in his reminiscences. Melbourne had taken Caro to Brussels when well-born Englishmen flocked there. It had been a uniquely charged atmosphere with little attention paid the proprieties and a city full of soldiers doubtful they would live through the engagement to come. It made for much gaiety and doubtful morals, no place for the conservative or prudish. When Wellington made some offhand reference to one party, another ball or some outlandish excess that included the name Caro Lamb he didn't falter or pretend to be apologetic, and that made it entirely comfortable. Melbourne wouldn't mind for himself – when he thought of Caro at all, it was with the distant, almost vague fondness one reserved for the friends of one's youth – but he was initially leery, lest Victoria affected. Other than exchanging an occasional glance – _she_ cared for _his_ sake, he knew, which only made him love her more – Victoria listened as avidly as the rest. Her eyes widened slightly when Wellington made a risqué quip about Caro's famous tendency to wet her gauze gowns so that it was obvious she was entirely naked underneath, but when he went on to describe the amorous exploits of his own General Staff during their weeks in Vienna for the Conference she only listened attentively and asked the leading questions any good hostess might.

Neither Wellington nor Melbourne were inveterate gamblers, reserving their play for the clubs, they would have joined the ladies in the drawing room if Victoria hadn't suggested that the gentlemen play billiards instead.

"Only if you, my dear little Majesty, favor us by playing on the pianoforte."

Victoria showed Melbourne a little moue of distaste – she played only for her own pleasure and disliked above all the inevitable gratuitous praise that any performance in front of others earned – but sweetly agreed. Lady Douro followed in her wake, their silk skirts rustling prettily when they passed, and the gentlemen followed.

♛

"Not how I envisioned my homecoming, or how we would spend our evening." Melbourne pushed out of his slippers and sank gratefully against banked feather pillows.

Victoria slid under the bedcovers and settled herself against his shoulder.

"How was your day? Did you accomplish everything you set out to do?"

Melbourne considered the question.

"My day was fine. I don't say I could ever be a country squire, content to putter about the land. But it makes a nice change from the demands of our other life. And you? What did you do today?"

Victoria briefly summarized the contents of the dispatch box that had naturally found her, and described at greater length the visit she and the children had paid to watch cider be pressed. She took a great interest in – novel, for her, raised as she had been in palaces far from the country – domestic matters and dogged the housekeeper's steps, wanting to learn as much as she could. Her interest was as superficial as a child's, Melbourne knew, and found it quaint. His own mother, accustomed to being the doyenne of a country estate, had doubtless never visited the kitchens or shown any interest in the putting up of preserves.

Melbourne found his own rhythm, remembering the small oddities, the local gossip and family news of a dozen tenant farmers. His heavy aching limbs grew light and he felt filled by the warmth of perfect contentment.

"The blacksmith's younger boy brought back news of agitators in Manchester. The reforms haven't gone far enough, it was said, and the organizers threaten to bar entrance to the mills by calling for a strike."

Victoria's dark brows came together in a frown and she forgot the mysteries of jam-making, in her pursuit of more information. She asked astute questions that Melbourne reflected upon before answering. Suddenly, mid-sentence, he laughed out loud and Victoria tilted her head, puzzled.

"Only in our bedroom…can we go from Farmer Brown's new barn, to the – what was it? Second cook? No; third - recipe for rhubarb sauce to labor unrest and socialist agitators in Manchester to –" he had laughed throughout, until he suddenly choked on his words. A soft hand and knowing fingers had found him.

"- _to_? Lord Melbourne, please continue," Victoria said sweetly, her voice becoming muffled as her dark head ducked beneath the sheets.

Duke of Wellington, circa 1847-1848


	37. Chapter 37

_All is calm, all is bright…_

Those words, translated from the popular German hymn which had taken fashionable London by storm, might have been written for a night such as this. So Melbourne thought, looking out on a familiar vista now turned, by the magic of the moment, into a glittering fairy-realm.

Victoria's sweet dulcet voice hummed the melody so softly that he felt more than heard it, where the back of her head rested on his chest.

_My heart is full and at peace_.

The children, finally, were abed and asleep. They followed the German practice of Victoria's childhood, in opening gifts on Christmas Eve, which replaced the solemnity of the vigil with shrieks of delight. Inevitably that exuberance, fueled by raw greed and acquisitiveness which surfaced in the most placid of children, turned to squabbling and thence to tears. But finally, _finally_ , lids grew heavy and yawns could no longer be suppressed. Clutching fists loosened their grip on prized toys, limbs swung heavy and boneless, as each child was carried up to bed.

The servants were eager to finish their day, tidying the carnage in the drawing room, before they too could withdraw and partake of refreshment laid out in the servants' hall.

Wordlessly, by mutual agreement, Melbourne and Victoria had retired as well, dismissing valet and lady's maid as soon as they were undressed. Pleasantly weary but not ready for sleep, they made their way to the narrow balcony outside their shared bedchamber.

Snow was falling, lending the scene an artistic tableau. It would, Melbourne knew, last no more than a day or two; tomorrow, after the requisite church appearance, he would recruit a likely footman or stableboy to unearth the bobsleds kept for just such an event. The December air was cold and crisp, with none of the London dampness which chilled one to the bone.

"Warm enough?" he murmured against dark head upon which he rested his chin. He held Victoria close, the flaps of his own dressing gown enveloping, arms folded around her slender figure. His words were the first either had spoken in several long minutes, and he almost regretted marring the perfect tranquility of their easy quietude.

"Mmmm," Victoria responded, in a subaudible hum. She sighed once, deeply.

"I wish everything could stay this way…forever," she said then, apropos of nothing, and Melbourne instantly understood her. He waited for her to continue.

"I would not be eighteen again, or even twenty, if I could. Now I've caught up to you, and I'm so much happier than I ever imagined."

"Then…oh, I knew I loved you and had to have you or die, but…" Victoria spoke so slowly, it was almost as if she were thinking aloud and Melbourne was content to listen. "…but I never really thought about being _happy_. Rather, I wanted you so that I wouldn't be _unhappy_ , but that's not the same thing, is it?"

She drew his arms even more tightly about her, as if wrapping herself in a warm shawl, then ducked her head to kiss the back of his hand.

"Now…everything is so easy, so right and good. Tranquil?" Victoria tested the word, speaking it as if she had only just learned the meaning.

"We're good together, and I finally feel as if I deserve you – no, that's not right." She giggled self-consciously. "I feel as if I'm not about to lose you, to your own scruples, or to the scheming of my family to put one cousin or another on _my_ throne. Or to – well, to a woman who is more sophisticated, worldly, interesting, exciting – _taller_ – than I."

It was Melbourne's turn to laugh and he struggled to resist, making his chest quake under her resting head. _Taller_. That old bugaboo, which – along with an adolescent tendency to plumpness she had long since vanquished – had fueled much of her physical insecurity.

"So you see? I've caught up to you and now we are equals, a man and a woman. I like everything just as it is, and don't want it to ever change."

Melbourne contemplated what sort of response he should make, sensing verbal pitfalls into which any husband might stumble.

"I loved you then and I adore you now, Mrs. Melbourne," he said finally, hoping against hope he'd chosen the right thing to say.

"In another week it will be 1848," Victoria said wonderingly. "I will be nine-and-twenty in 1848, only a year short of 30. Once I thought that was very old. Now, it's just right. No longer a silly girl, but young enough so that I'm not entirely unappealing."

There was a question in her words; Melbourne grinned into the darkness at this very feminine fishing for reassurance.

"Not entirely unappealing," he teased. Then his thoughts were caught fast. _1848_. It made him shiver. The year he himself would turn sixty-nine, but that was not so very different than the sixty-eight years he already had. Thanks be to God, everything still worked; if his lumbago was a constant companion, it was not so severe as to prevent him from riding out, or promenading down St. James past the famed bow windows. He had made a full recovery from two apoplectic strokes, with no little help from the Spartan diet the physicians prescribed and Victoria ruthlessly enforced. He was still bled monthly, out of an abundance of caution and his doctors' determination to keep his blood pressure in check, but overall he was in far better health than many men of his age. Take poor Fred –

The thought of his younger brother made him stop short. They were here, at Melbourne Hall, spending Christmas with Frederick and Adine, because his sister-in-law had written to plead with them to make the effort. Fred's gout was so bad that he could not travel south, to Brocket Hall or Windsor, not even in the comfort of a private coach on the railway which stopped only eight miles from the village.

Seeing his sole remaining brother – his _younger_ brother – had disturbed Melbourne more than he'd anticipated. The elevated foot, obviously swollen under layers of gauze, was the obvious and indisputable cause of Fred's malaise, but there was something in those familiar handsome features now gaunt and taut with strain…

If anyone else had broached the subject Melbourne would have strenuously denied belief that one's emotional state, one's _mind_ , if you will, could have such a deleterious effect on one's body. And yet, with the undercurrent between them, some mournful sense that a deep, doting affection had died, Melbourne could not help but attribute Fred's decline to his young wife's detachment.

Adine was the same age as Victoria; she had been swept off her feet by the handsome diplomat stationed in Vienna when Vienna was a hotbed of political intrigue. Unlike Victoria, Adine had begun pining for the life she'd forfeited to marry a man forty years her senior.

Melbourne had encouraged Fred to take a house in London for the season each year, but he'd immersed himself so thoroughly in life as a country squire that the balls and receptions and levées at which he'd once cut such a dashing figure no longer appealed. Where Victoria and Melbourne had grown together, each of them leaning into the other so that they reached an effortless union of interests, giving and taking in a spirit of mutual respect, Adine and Fred had grown apart.

Victoria had pulled away, just far enough so she could turn and look up into his face. Melbourne looked down solemnly and cupped her cheek in his palm.

"Wool-gathering, my darling. Whatever 1848 will bring us, I look forward to it. In the meantime…shall we go in? I think we'll find a bottle of Champagne."

Victoria tilted her head, brows furrowed in puzzlement.

"Mrs. Melbourne!" He pretended to be shocked, even dismayed. "Surely it's after midnight, long since. Did you forget it's the anniversary of the night we took our vows?"

* * *


	38. Chapter 38

London Frost Fair, 1814

* * *

The time between Christmas and the beginning in earnest of a new year seemed to drag on interminably. Partly it was the fault of the weather, a succession of bleak days smothered in a thick fog which encased every twig and branch in a misty shroud, leaching the landscape of color.

A good hard freeze, even one as severe as that of 1814, would break the monochrome monotony, and the children would be delighted by snow. Melbourne told them about the 1814 frost fair, which had seen Londoners stand on the Thames eating gingerbread and sipping gin. Meat was roasted in front of roaring fires, drink was liberally taken and dances were held. An elephant was marched across the river alongside Blackfriars Bridge. George III had been on the throne, Lord Liverpool was prime minister and the Napoleonic wars would soon be won, although that winter the news from Europe was not unilaterally promising, and William Lamb was a young man still, in the prime of life.

On a gloomy Sunday, the first of 1848, Melbourne stood in the window, staring out at nothing, seeing instead the kaleidoscope of memories which crowded his mind. His nights were restless, doubtless the result of lackluster days without sufficient exercise for body or mind; the result too of his old foe _melancholy_ , a black dog which tended to creep up on padded feet and insinuate itself into the background, coloring every thought.

Melancholy, was it, he wondered, or ennui? That seemed more reasonable, not so much a bleak despairing state of mind as an absence of distraction to give shape and purpose to his days. Whatever it was, Victoria had fallen prey as well. If he immersed himself, or pretended to, in the never-ending task of bringing order to his trove of papers and eking out some progress on his memoirs, lapsing into gentle distant silence, she moved in the other direction. In the absence of real work – Parliament had last met on 20 December, and would not resume until February – she started household projects one after another and abandoned them, assigning contradictory tasks and conflicting orders to her household staff and those ladies-in-waiting that remained at Court. She chattered with great, even excessive, animation one moment and then snapped irritably the next.

Soon after they returned to the capital Melbourne arranged an outing. It was not an unmitigated success. The best playhouses were closed, but there were still second and third tier playhouses catering to those well-heeled Cits who remained in the capital. The Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly was one such. They took a glossy black carriage, unmarked, devoid of the Royal crest and seal, and set out through the muddy streets escorted only by one outrider in a nondescript caped driving coat.

Their route took them past the unfortunates one learned to ignore, and who amused themselves by catcalling anyone of means. Their carriage, though uncrested, must have advertised its occupants' wealth, for one missile after another thunked against the window, half-frozen chunks of manure threatening to crack the glass pane.

That should have warned him, he told himself critically, how the evening would go. Rather than turn back, Victoria insisted they persevere. When their carriage arrived at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly a footman was dispatched to obtain whatever private box might be available at short notice. They were escorted to a box, private at least, although with none of the luxuries of distance or amenity to be found at the Royal Theatre.

On another night, in another mood, Victoria might have clung to his arm, or giggled in response to his attempts to distract her, or even expressed a misguided compassion for these most destitute and morally abandoned of her subjects. Instead, she sat tight-lipped and silent, huffing her displeasure – at him? The outing? The offense to her dignity? Her displeasure increased at the lack of decorum amongst working class playgoers in the pit, at the failure of their protection officer to spare her catcalls and jostling in the main lobby, even at Melbourne's failed attempts to brighten her mood with the sort of witticisms which usually made her laugh. _As if she'd determined to be displeased_ , he'd decided, and knew his best response was silence. Seeing her safely into the carriage for their return to Buckingham, Melbourne had turned up his coat collar against the cold night air and turned his thoughts inward.

And that was the last attempt Melbourne made to devise some amusement during the bleakest of seasons. All the world was a colorless morass of acrid sulfurous fog and fetid mud half-frozen into near-impassable, ankle-turning ruts. Of course they were not estranged; marriage did not consist of an endless string of sunny days. Each in their own way resisted any temptation to carp at the other, by seeking separate occupations for much of the day. All they could do holed up in the palace was to keep themselves busy until the sun broke through the clouds with a reprieve.

Fred had grudgingly agreed to follow them to London at several weeks' remove. He insisted he required that much time to set the Hall and surrounding estate in order. Melbourne intended to find him a job, and deliberately ignored his brother's oh-so-familiar protests. He himself had railed at great length against both a job and a Dukedom, considering both humiliating sinecures from the Queen. Fred felt no different in turn. He had no need to recite for Melbourne the highlights of a diplomatic career which had spanned nearly half a century. Melbourne – the entire Lamb family – had taken great pride in Frederik's swift advancement, the knowledge that one of their own played an integral role in world events. But that was then and this was now, and retirement most emphatically did not agree with either of them. Melbourne was determined that his brother reap the benefits of his own experience. What did it matter how either of them came to the attention of the Queen, thereby cherry-picking the choicest of positions? They were both of them able, experienced men capable of serving Crown and country.

Carving out a second career for his brother gave Melbourne a focus for his own energy and ambition – that ambition a burning need to be _useful_ and have an impact, rather than to achieve power for its own sake, or glory or monetary reward.

 _We are not, either of us, ready to be put out to pasture_ , Melbourne thought, and for a moment he didn't recognize the rumbling, rasping voice which uttered his words. Realizing he'd spoken aloud without meaning to, he shook his head and turned away from the window. _Mere wool-gathering_ , he told himself silently, lips pinched tightly closed to prevent any sound from escaping.

Boxes were dusted off and brought to his study; faded ink on worn pages made its way to his desktop once more, letters he'd written and received a more reliable source of his personal history than sterile intermittent scratchings in his commonplace books.

He had never been a diligent diarist. Not like Victoria, certainly, who kept two volumes, one for that self-same _posterity_ and one for her own eyes only, far more intimate and emotional. He had had glimpses of that second one over the years, only when she chose to share a passage or enlist his aid in refreshing her recollection of some event on a particular day. Sometimes, even, when she wanted him to understand how she felt about something and lacked the courage to tell him directly.

 _Victoria's diaries?_ Melbourne wondered. Might that be a place to start? The blank spots in his memory spanned the first years they were together – in terms of physical intimacy and all that flowed from that first act. Of course he had not precisely _forgotten_ such pinnacle moments as the birth of the heir to the throne, Albert's son in name only, or even more public events such as the occupation of Hong Kong and Sir Robert Peel's Conservatives taking control of the House of Commons in mid-summer. Melbourne had been bitterly blamed by his old Whig comrades-in-arms for losing them the House. A Whig in name only, he had previously been called, but by his impromptu resignation had handed the Tories their victory.

Still, these were _facts_ that might be looked up in any English newspaper; he had virtually no store of day to day memories for much of 1840 and most of 1841. The only other time in his life that had such a curtain drawn over it was 1812, and with that realization Melbourne grasped the correlation. Both were years lived in alt, suffused with an intensity of emotions that utterly destroyed the tranquility he prized. 1812, of course, had been the year of Lord Byron, but also of public humiliation and high drama. 1841 had been the year of Victoria, the year his senses were ceaselessly battered and peace non-existent; a year when he had frequently doubted both his own survival and his desire to do so.

 _What had Victoria said recently?_ Melbourne called up her sweet clear voice and the surprisingly insightful, even profound observation she'd made about that very time.

_"…I knew I loved you and had to have you or die, but I never really thought about being happy. Rather, I wanted you so that I wouldn't be unhappy, but that's not the same thing, is it?"_

Yes, that was it, Melbourne decided. Some people flourish in times of great intensity; when they reach a plateau phase of contentment and serenity, it feels flat. Not he, and not, he hoped, not her either. He would not relive those early days again for anything, would not trade places for a single moment with the bumbling fool he'd been back then. To bed a Queen Regnant and cuckold her husband, no matter how willingly that husband entered into the scheme; to entangle himself with an eighteen-year-old girl, _any_ girl so very much younger; to place his own hard-won peace of mind and poor, battered heart and mind in the keeping of a greedy, needy, volatile young woman and her confused Sodomite prince…he shuddered, even now, at the inconceivable catastrophe they had risked.

Later, when he was felled on the day of their daughter's birth, it came as no real surprise. No matter how much the doctors had prosed on about abstaining from port and red meat and the health-giving virtue of vigorous exercise and regular bleeding, Melbourne had understood at the time what his poor battered brain had tried to tell him. The only miracle was that his first and most severe hemorrhagic stroke had not come a year sooner.

His thoughts took him back in time, to the last thing he could recollect clearly. The clear, crystalline amber light of wintry sunset, and a sense of perfect peace and calm. An almost-surreal hush blanketing the air, broken only by soft dove-like cooing. Victoria with her brown hair brushed smoothly over her shoulders, sitting up in bed with their son in her arms. The two of them alone, albeit briefly, thanks to Albert's imperious manner.

And yet…and yet dread lay just beneath the surface. Life had instilled in Melbourne the fearful knowledge that any hint of hubris or happiness would exact terrible retribution. He was not _meant_ to be happy; it was as simple as that, and as certain.

What could happen? Who could predict? Only fifty-five years ago, while he was at Eton, the French queen had been led through the streets of Paris in a tumbrel. A young woman still, that queen had been only a decade older than Victoria.

All at once cold hands clasped his throat and although their grip wasn't tight, it was enough to cause him to choke and start, jerking away violently.

Victoria stood behind him, now laughing uncertainly. The footman at her side set down a stack of small leather-bound books, his eyes averted.

"Lord M, I didn't intend to give you a heart attack!" she said, her eyes going wide with contrition.

"You startled me, that's all," Melbourne croaked. Of course she had not throttled him; her touch was a caress. Only, the scene playing out in his mind just then had given it an entirely different interpretation.

"What were you doing?" They spoke simultaneously, the same words at precisely the same moment, then chuckled at the synchronicity.

"You first," Melbourne prompted, indicating the scattered papers and notes on his writing desk. "It's painfully obvious what I've been doing, or not doing."

"I've been in the archives," Victoria said, leaning a hip against his shoulder. By lamplight Melbourne could see a scrim of dust on her upper lip, embedded in beaded perspiration. He lifted one dainty hand, then the other, and turned them palms-up. Half-crescents of grime soiled her nails, an unusual sight which prompted him to lift his brows.

"I believe we have staff who could assist," he said drily. "If not servants, then one of that phalanx of secretaries employed by your office and mine or –"

"They wouldn't have known where to look or what to look for," Victoria replied, summarily dismissing the suggestion. Melbourne followed the direction of her gaze.

"I brought these, in hopes they might help you. I've already told you why it's important your memoirs become part of the history of my reign, but if my reasoning fell on deaf ears, why, surely you dare not disappoint Mrs. Kemble."

Melbourne studied her closely, parsing her words and expression for any hint of resentment. Victoria's jealousy might be tempered now by wisdom and experience, but her temper and that old hobgoblin insecurity still lay close to the surface. Insecurity, and a deep-seated hunger to be the sole object of attention in anyone she cared about. He only belatedly grasped the significance of what she'd brought him, and felt a flash of annoyance.

"Yes, I know you're stuck and making no progress," Victoria snapped. "I thought it might help if you had my diaries to look over."

"Thank you," Melbourne answered flatly, preferring to forget he'd had that very thought not so long ago. Nothing he wrote, either for the Royal Archives or to Fanny, for her novel, could be kept secret, yet it angered him that Victoria would check his work as though he were a schoolboy and she his headmaster.

He huffed out a sound that was half-sigh, half-grumble, relenting.

"You haven't been sleeping well. I thought this might be on your mind and wanted to help."

"And so you did, ma'am," Melbourne answered, almost regretful to feel his annoyance dissipate.

He had been sleeping too well, if one measured by duration. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow and awoke eight hours later, exhausted by immersion in a highly active dreamscape. Not _those_ dreams, or not mostly, and for that he was grateful. No surreal landscape which might too closely resemble the one seen out every window; no lonely sojourn through a dream world, mourning a loss too great to bear alone.

 _These_ dreams were the ordinary sort he supposed most people his age endured, encountering people from his past, events real or imagined but the script always rewritten enough so that he knew he was not merely reliving old memories. Recall faded fast, but he was always fatigued mentally and physically by whatever adventures the night held. Nothing fabulous, no sea monsters or dragons, no ghosts clanking their chains such as Mr. Dickens depicted. Yet night after night, all his energy was subsumed by the necessity of occupying this dream-state. Worst was the moment which came nearly every night, when he confronted the news of some death he had long since mourned and put behind him in real life. Mother, Father, Peniston, George. Friends from schooldays long past. Caro, certainly, but also a gamekeeper who had taken him out shooting on vacations from school, his governesses, one loved, one loathed, each death shocking to a young boy.

It wasn't the sort of thing one could bring up at his club; not a topic to introduce over brandy. The close friends with whom he maintained regular contact, Emily – Melbourne was on terms of intimate friendship with only a handful of fellows his own age, and he winced at the notion of bringing up such a subject. They might dwell at length on Descartes' Meditations and debate the merit of his sensory-based beliefs, but would think him barking mad should he turn such a conversation in a personal direction. Voltaire had been the topic for more than one literary discussion, but if it was acceptable to dissect _Plato's Dream_ over beefsteak and roasted potatoes, it was beyond the pale for any gentleman to permit his own foibles to intrude.

Melbourne opened the cover of one of the red leather-bound volumes, reading the date written in Victoria's neat hand. 4 January 1841.

"That is the year you were stuck on…?" she asked tentatively.

"It is. Perhaps I was too busy living to record my impressions as they occurred."

"Not an uneventful year," Victoria mused. "And yet I recall so little of it too. And what I do remember…"

"It was not a year of unmitigated joy," Melbourne said, finishing her sentence. Her eyelids flew up, a look of surprise in her eyes.

"No. Not unmitigated joy," she agreed. Sighing, she moved to the low leather-covered sofa and sat. "Isn't that odd? We should have been…happier. The first years of marriage - and that's what I consider it, that we were married before God – should be the happiest, should they not?"

Melbourne considered the question gravely.

"Should they be? I'm not sure, and God knows I'm no expert on marriage, but I don't recall them as particularly happy in either of my marriages. It takes time and patience to learn to be married, at least in a love match. Where there are no such expectations, of course – where marriage is entered into solely for the benefits it brings to both families, as it was in my parents' day – I suppose it is easier."

"But to give your heart to another, to surrender your happiness into another's keeping…sometimes I think it felt like being flayed alive. I felt everything so intensely then, so acutely it was painful. Every time I saw you – oh, I was relieved you'd returned, and so frightened that you would come only to tell me you couldn't see me anymore, not in _that_ way. It's funny to recall but…"

Victoria hesitated, pretending fascination with a loose thread on her gown. "the only times I felt easy was when Albert sat with me, or invited me to his apartments in the evening, with his friends. Why was it so much easier, more comfortable, to be with a husband I wasn't in love with, than with the lover I was?"

"Because nothing was settled between us, not really?" Melbourne forced himself to say, to break the silence.

"Because I could never feel _sure_ that you wouldn't go away and leave me. No matter how often you reassured me, it felt as if you were just out of reach. As if…" Victoria's voice trailed off and she sighed. Then, before he could steel himself to guard his own thoughts, her gaze flew up and locked onto his.

"Were you? Were you not sure, even then? Even after Liam was born, during that whole year, did you have doubts? Regrets?"

What could he tell her? Melbourne wondered. To admit to what she already knew, whether or not she could admit the truth to herself? That it had been a touch-and-go thing? That he had been tortured by doubt and misgiving, had fought the battle anew every day, telling himself over and over that the best thing for _her_ , for both of them, would be to fade away quietly and let her live the life she deserved? That the scrap of lace-swathed humanity in the Royal nursery would be far better off without a taint of bastardry hovering over his cradle? And that he, himself, would be, if not happier then at least at peace, if he traded the effort and uncertainty of their life together for the tranquility of solitude?

"I've reached this impasse," he smacked his hand on a sheaf of old letters. "Because I can't recall much of that first year, any more than you can. I do know that I've never doubted my love for you, not even for a moment. Does that answer your question?"

Melbourne watched her, anticipating her reaction. Once, she would not have let the matter rest; she would have pushed and prodded until things best left unspoken were said aloud. Once, she would have been clumsy and overeager in her insatiable need for reassurance. Once, she would have forced a stark acknowledgement of unpalatable fact, unable to understand a more nuanced interpretation.

They were interrupted then by a cautious knock on the door. The hall page opened the door on command, stepping back to permit the Queen's Equerry to enter. Victoria brightened immediately, on recognizing the portfolio he held as bearing the crest of Lord Grey, the Home Secretary. She took it and as soon as they were alone once more, untied the ribbon and withdrew a multipage document.

"A petition for clemency and pardon," Victoria read aloud. "It appears that a person named Thomas Drewery had been tried at the Wakefield sessions in December, 1845, on a charge of horse-stealing. Unfortunately he was too poor to defend himself; and having attempted to prove an alibi, he failed, and was sentenced to seven years' transportation. Application was subsequently made to the Home Office in his behalf, and an alibi offered to be proved on the strongest testimony; but it was stated that to acquit a prisoner in this way was altogether without precedent, and the consequence was that the sentence remained unrevoked, and after being confined two years in Pentonville prison he was sent out in May last to Van Diemen's Land. Lord Grey further writes to assure us that the entire matter is receiving the closest consideration, but at this point that poor man's hope rests entirely on a pardon from the Crown."

Melbourne marveled at how rapidly Victoria's mood lifted at this appeal to her authority; marveled even more at how many traits they shared, under superficial differences. He too was at his most dissatisfied when he was not _needed_ , not actively engaged in exercising his intellect to some tangible end.

"Tell me more," he said, deliberately closing the cover of that first journal, part of a stack she'd brought him. "1841 can wait."

And he joined her on the sofa, listening to her read aloud in the warm glow of an oil lamp. Seen in profile, she was still a girl pure as a cameo, nose slightly upturned, chin firm and resolute. Melbourne interjected on occasion, adding his thoughts to those of Lord Grey and Mr. Ewart; Victoria listened, turning his ideas over in her mind, rebutting where she disagreed and agreeing enthusiastically where their notions aligned.

Victoria's perfect posture gave her dignity, and on public occasions he had never seen her back touch any chair on which she sat. But when it was just the two of them that great dignity relaxed, so that by the time she had formulated the response she wished to send she was leaning heavily against him, their legs touching, the heat of their bodies warming any space left between them. Looking over her shoulder as she wrote in the margins of the petition, Melbourne suggested a word here, the modification of a phrase there.

The unconscious affinity that drew them together, physically, mentally and emotionally, grounded him in a way nothing else could. This is who we are, he thought, and what that early turmoil was for. Suddenly he was intellectually curious, wanting to restore his memories of that tumultuous year for his own sake, to understand how something strong and good found fertile ground in which to grow and flourish amidst chaos and uncertainty.


End file.
